


Raven in Flight

by Emmyllou



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Bickering, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Regency
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 71,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29064501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmyllou/pseuds/Emmyllou
Summary: Magic has returned, throwing England into panic and uncertainty. In the wake of the chaos, Johannite activity is stirring once again. As Segundus and Childermass investigate the mystery surrounding the Johannites, they must contend with a magician obsessed with madness; a number of rebels with a dangerous cause; and, quite possibly, a traitor in their midst.Rated M for content in later chapters.Updates twice a week.
Relationships: John Childermass/John Segundus
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	1. Restless

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [pablo360](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pablo360/pseuds/Pablo360) for going above and beyond as an alpha reader. This fic would look very different without his invaluable input.

**May 1817**

John Segundus sat quietly in the cheerful, sunny main room of the Old Starre Inn, listening to men talk about magic. This was no longer an unusual occurrence; indeed, the meetings of the Learned Society of York Magicians had doubled in number (to the innkeeper’s delight), at least for the time being, and the Inn was filled with magicians every two weeks instead of every four. Still, Segundus could not help but marvel at what he took to be a sign of a renewed age of scholarship and study— an age that he, improbable magician that he was, had helped bring about! It was an exhilarating thought.

Alas, Segundus had no companion with which to share such thoughts. Mr. Honeyfoot, Segundus’s most constant and steadfast friend, had taken ill the previous week and didn’t have the strength to attend the meeting, even though he would not have to travel for it. Segundus was quite alone. He didn’t mind, exactly; he figured that he had said enough for the time being. Still, it would have been nice to speak with someone else over breakfast, he mused. He had several kind criticisms of William Hadley-Bright’s speech from the previous night that he wished to share with the man himself, but he was nowhere to be found. Segundus scanned the room once more and sighed to himself.

In his solitude, the frustrations that usually laid dormant in the back of his mind bubbled up and demanded that they be taken out and examined closely. Segundus could only oblige. First, he worried about Starecross: he and Mrs. Lennox hadn’t yet found any pupils who might be interested in learning magic at such an institution. His livelihood might disappear, once again, without ever having fully materialized. That, of course, led to worry over his finances; namely, his lack thereof. He had enough to get by, but his clothes were wearing thin once more, and he had begun to discover that magic could be quite an expensive undertaking. Quite aside from books, of which few remained, magic often required herbs and ribbons and knives and all sorts of strange, fiddly devices that cost more than Segundus could scrape together in a month. Just as Segundus was beginning to fret over his inability to properly study magic and the disappointment he was sure to make of himself, a bout of laughter went up from a few tables over, and his worries scurried back into the shadows of his mind. He found it easier to pay them no mind when he was distracted, so he decided to distract himself.

Segundus took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar inn-scent of fresh-cooked food and spilled ale that burrowed its way into the wooden furniture and never quite came out. Now was not the time for worry, he told himself firmly. He had plenty of time for that later. For now, he should find a magician or two who might welcome his company and his conversation. Thus decided, he cast his attention around the room, searching for a table he might join.

Much of the talk was too quiet for him to hear, tucked away as he was in a small, clean booth in a corner. The grand speeches and wild assertions had all been spoken last night. Now was the time for intimate discussion with one or two of one’s fellows, so that one might come to his— or  _ hers, _ Segundus told himself firmly, thinking of Miss Redruth— own conclusions regarding the previous night’s revelations.

And such revelations they had been! Childermass had dragged a half-sozzled Vinculus before the assembled gentlemen, stripped his filthy work-trousers off, and pointed to a spot high on Vinculus’s thigh that had made Segundus’s cheeks heat and some of the older gentlemen mutter disapprovingly.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Childermass had said gravely, as though he had no idea of the fuss he’d caused. On the contrary, Segundus had been quite sure that it had delighted him. “The gentlemen of the Oxfordshire Magicians’ Society have deciphered this spell written here in the Book. Please make special note of its location. They believe it may be significant.” Childermass had paused then, pulled a tattered scrap of paper from his coat pocket and laid it upon the table, and added: “I have made a copy of their translation. You may all copy it for thyselves.” And with that, Childermass had stomped out the door and into the night, and Segundus had not seen him since.

Now, Segundus was regretting not having spoken to Childermass when he had the chance. He had left for home before Childermass had come to retrieve Vinculus; many magicians of the York Society traveled for the meetings, but Segundus had found himself a pleasant landlady in the town proper who charged reasonable rent. Thus, he had no need to lay awake after having gone to his room at a sensible time, listening to the younger magicians carouse long past the hour when they ought to have been quietly in bed with a good book. He wondered where Childermass had gone when he left Vinculus alone in the hands of the gentlemen magicians. It was uncharacteristic for him to leave the Book alone in such a manner; normally, the two were closer than, well— Segundus smiled to himself— than two pages in a closed book.

Perhaps, like the Devil, thinking of Childermass summoned him; the inn’s front door opened, letting in a gust of chilly early-spring wind, and there he was in the flesh. He glanced around the room until his eyes lit upon Segundus, then made his way over, bringing the smell of the moors with him to settle in the cracks and corners of the furniture. He loomed over Segundus like a bird-of-prey, his rain-dark hair and ruffled clothing entirely at odds with the sunny, cheerful interior of the inn.

Segundus was startled out of his reverie. “Would you like to—” he began, but Childermass interrupted him by sitting down before he could finish his invitation. “Very good.”

“I looked for you last night,” Childermass said without preamble.

This divulgence was so surprising that Segundus had to take a moment to come up with an answer. “I went home,” he said.

Childermass raised an eyebrow. “All the way to Starecross?”

“No.” Segundus fidgeted with the cuff of his jacket and noted in the back of his mind that it was wearing thin. “I have a room here in York, in the town proper. I  _ must _ be here; it is where all the magic is being done!”

“So you have abandoned your respectable position as a madhouse-keeper?” Childermass kept a straight face, but Segundus was quite sure he was being made fun of.

“Not abandoned it!” Segundus insisted. “Only, there is no need for a madhouse-keeper if the madhouse has no patients, is there? Lady Pole is quite well again, thanks in part to your efforts. And besides, whatever your views on madhouse-keepers, it is not a position I wish to personally fill, and I only did it the once because I had no other options.”

“You are a magician, Mr. Segundus,” said Childermass. “You always have options.”

Segundus looked down at the table. Though it looked well cared-for, the wood was worn and age-darkened. He supposed that was an inevitability in a place as bustling and prosperous as the Old Starre Inn. “I was not a magician then,” he said quietly. “At least, not much of one, not in any way that mattered. You made sure of that.” He glared at Childermass, whose normally-inscrutable eyes seemed to take on a veil of pity, though it was gone before Segundus could be certain of what he saw.

“I believe I have apologized enough for that,” said Childermass.

“Apologized?” Segundus repeated. “We haven’t spoken in months!”

“I have been travelling,” Childermass said with an air of patience. “Helping to ensure the reinstatement of the societies of magicians that fell apart in the past few decades.”

“The ones that you broke up, you mean.” Segundus knew he was being surly, but he couldn’t help it. He had started the day in such a tranquil and scholarly mood— how had he become so agitated? The answer, he knew, was in front of him. Childermass had an uncanny knack for riling up gentlemen who would rather be left well enough alone. Childermass might say the same of him, of course.

Childermass sighed. “Yes, the ones I broke up, in the service of one of the men who brought back English magic. He was short-sighted and jealous, but he is gone now, and I am making what reparations I may. What would you have me do, Mr. Segundus, to atone more fully? Would you have me step backward in time to undo my actions? Would you have me vanish off this Earth and remove my influence entirely?”

Segundus looked down once more at the table, feeling rather like a chastised child. It was a familiar feeling, though one he hadn’t experienced in many decades. He decided he didn’t like it any more now than he had in his father’s home. He opened his mouth to retort, but Childermass held up a hand for silence, his head tilted to one side with the air of a dog listening intently for a small scurrying creature in the underbrush.

“What?” Segundus asked a moment later when Childermass turned his attention back to him.

“I overheard talk of the topic I sought you out to discuss,” Childermass said. “It is a rather pressing matter.”

“Oh.” Segundus felt a flash of embarrassment. Of course Childermass had an agenda; he wouldn’t seek Segundus out for the simple pleasure of his company and conversation. “What topic might that be?”

“The Johannite rebellion,” said Childermass. “I trust you have heard of it?” He looked at Segundus from under sooty lashes as though gauging his reaction.

“Of course I have heard of it. Who has not heard of it?” (Childermass let out a huff of laughter.) “But I thought it was put down last year.”

Childermass shook his head, and his hair moved in a dark ripple like an implacable wave far out in the middle of the ocean. At least, that’s how Segundus imagined such a wave might look. The only waves Segundus had ever seen were the small ones that broke upon the beaches of Essex. “It was,” Childermass said, and Segundus’s thoughts snapped once more to the present. “Mostly. But it seems it has started up again with the return of the Raven King. Some of the Johannites seem to believe that he will personally force the factories and workshops to hire them back, if only they smash enough machines in his name.”

“And you want to consult with me on… how to quell the rebellion?” Segundus asked slowly.

The corner of Childermass’s mouth twitched. “In a manner of speaking. I want you to come to Duffield with me.”

Vinculus’s loud arrival spared Segundus the burden of answering such a suggestion immediately. Childermass swore under his breath and swept away to help sweep up the broken mess of a ceramic jug that Vinculus had managed to shatter. Segundus could hear him muttering apologies and promises of recompense to the stern-faced innkeeper as he gathered the shards with his bare hands. He returned a few minutes later, nursing a few shallow cuts on his fingers that he immediately hid when he noticed Segundus watching him. Even given a few moments to think it over, Segundus had no idea how he might answer Childermass’s proposal.

“Why me?” he asked as soon as Childermass sat down.

Childermass’s brow furrowed. “Because you are the only magician here with a lick of sense,” he said. “These are practical men. Craftsmen. They would not listen to the likes of Dr. Foxcastle or Mr. Thorpe, let alone any of the Messrs. Greyshippe.”

Segundus supposed that Childermass meant it as a compliment, but he couldn’t help but feel slighted. “You imply I am a gentleman of no great means,” he said. He felt his ears heat up once again and supposed that he must look rather comical, flushed and bothered as he was. He could not help it, however. Childermass was simply the sort of man who provoked such a reaction, and he took pleasure in it, too! Even now, Segundus was sure Childermass was holding back a smile. “And while I admit that I have been… embarrassed in the past, I assure you that I am in no financial difficulty at the time!”

“These men are,” Childermass said baldly. “Their very livelihoods are in danger. That is something you understand far better than any magician here, save perhaps Tom Levy and myself.”

“Why take another magician at all?” asked Segundus. He was stalling for time, and he was quite certain Childermass knew it.

“Because I serve the Raven King, as the Johannites claim to.” The shadows in Childermass’s face and about his person twisted, and the darkness of his hair and his coat ran together, and it seemed for a moment that he wore a heavy, rich cloak of office. Segundus could very well believe that Childermass’s every movement, every word was in service of the Raven King. In an instant, the effect was gone; Childermass appeared, once again, to be no more than a weary man of the world. “They would not see me as a neutral force. They would want me to be an ally in their fight, and when I prove myself to be otherwise, I would become their enemy.”

Segundus nodded. It was a phenomenon he had seen many times, and while he understood the tendency of men to take such a position, it frustrated him nonetheless. He glanced around the comforting interior of the Old Starre Inn. As the morning had grown late, it had gotten busier; now, it was practically bustling. Many of the patrons were magicians, more than a few nursing hangovers, but many more were the good (and several disreputable) citizens of York stopping by for a cup of midmorning tea or an early luncheon.

Segundus came to a decision. This inn had been where he had asked The Question so long ago: “Why is magic no longer done in England?” That question had led not only to magic being done, but  _ Segundus _ being one of those who could do magic. The Old Starre Inn was a place of change, a place of stepping out of one world and into the next, and Segundus felt he could do with that right about now.

“I will go with you,” he found himself saying almost as soon as he had decided. “Though I’m not sure how much use I shall be.”

Childermass smiled a triumphant little smile. “I am sure you shall prove your worth before the end.”

“I have a few questions,” Segundus said as he moved to pay their tabs. (He was still feeling rather slighted and wished to prove to Childermass that he had no need of charity.)

Childermass smiled thinly. “I thought you might.” He held the door open for Segundus, who thanked him. It did not cross his mind that Childermass might have held the door out of habit rather than courtesy until he saw a flash of surprise on Childermass’s face, and he felt a tiny amount of satisfaction.  _ You think you know everything, but you don’t know me half as well as you should like to pretend, do you? _ he thought rather viciously, and then scolded himself for being unkind.

“Do you have a carriage, Mr. Segundus?” Childermass asked as they stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“Er, no,” said Segundus. He flushed once more (curse his complexion! At least his hair was behaving as it ought to) and paused outside the inn. “I walked here this morning. I live only a few blocks away. Would you like to come for tea?”

Childermass smirked. “You have just had tea.”

“Well, I might have some more,” Segundus said with an air of dignity. “I must inform my landlady that I will be going away, and she’ll take it better if I tell her over tea. She would not mind a guest.”

“She may mind two, if one of them is Vinculus,” Childermass said. He considered for a moment. “But yes, I shall join you for tea, and I will answer your questions. Perhaps in an hour? I’m sure Vinculus needs time to sober up.” He grimaced.

“Yes, in an hour,” Segundus agreed, and it wasn’t until he arrived and informed Mrs. Sparrow that he realized that he had never told Childermass his address.

\---

**February 1817**

In the county of Derbyshire, in the borough of Amber Valley, there was a small town called Duffield. Its inhabitants were principally farmers and craftsmen, and a textile mill, established in the area before the war, employed a couple dozen men. Though Duffield lay on the northerly side of the River Trent, it was not much affected by the Raven King’s conquest, as he preferred to keep further to the North, particularly in the county of Yorkshire. Subsequently, it was not much affected by the Raven King’s departure. Its citizenry cared little for the king who was as absent and had as little consequence to their lives as the distant King of Southern England. It would be safe to assume, therefore, that the good people of Duffield would pay little attention to the return of magic— and the Raven King— to England. However, that was not to be the case.

“Maggie, come quickly! You must see what little Florence has done!”

Margaret le Roy, known to her closest friends (and a few of her greatest enemies) as Maggie, looked up in annoyance from her task of mending the third-best riding gown of Mrs. Porter, the mistress of Duffield Hall. Milly Greene, governess to young mistresses Mary Porter and little Florence Porter, stood in the doorway, a splash of ink across her cheek and dark curls falling out of her simple chignon.

“Come along,” Milly urged once more. “She has done the most marvellous thing!”

“What has she done?” Maggie asked. She turned back to her mending. “Has she finally mastered French conjugations? Did her most recent table design send you into raptures?”

“No, never mind her table design,” Milly said impatiently. “You must see for yourself.”

Maggie stood with a sigh. She supposed she could leave the mending for later; it was very nearly complete anyway. “Very well. But why can you not tell me?”

“It is impossible to describe. You would not believe me if you do not see it with your own eyes.”

Maggie allowed herself to be dragged upstairs and through the brightly lit halls of Duffield Manor. Their destination turned out to be the drawing room, where most of the household were already congregated. Mr. and Mrs. Porter and Mary Porter stood in a huddle around little Florence, and the housekeeper and the butler were not far away. Maids and footmen stood in groups of twos and threes, alternately craning their necks to see whatever spectacle had befallen little Florence and speaking to one another in hushed, unsettled whispers.

Milly, as the governess, had the right to pull Maggie directly up to the family themselves and point to the object that lay on the table before little Florence: a delicate, perfectly-formed quill pen made entirely of glass.

Maggie looked from the glass quill to Milly. “I do not understand. Do you mean to say that little Florence is considering a career as a glazier?”

“Don’t be daft,” Milly said. “It is magic. She has done magic.”

_ Magic! _ Maggie’s head swam. If the family had not been present, she would have sat down. As it were, she was obliged to lean heavily on Milly’s arm. “But there is no more magic in England,” she said. “Save for that of those two gentlemen.”

“Apparently, that is no longer the case,” said Milly. “For here is proof of magic before our very eyes.”

“I will write my brother. His master is the first of the two magicians. Surely he will have answers to all our questions.”

Mr. Porter spoke for the first time since Maggie had stepped in the room. “You will do no such thing,” he said sharply. “None of you will speak or write a word about this to anyone outside of this household. In fact, I forbid any discussion or gossip of the events of today with any member of the household. This is not to be spoken of.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow at Milly, who stifled a chuckle. They both knew that Mr. Porter’s orders would only make it all the more likely for gossip and rumors to spread like weeds.

Mrs. Porter shared a glance with Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper. “Go on, you lot,” said the latter in her soft Scottish burr. “No time to waste standing around.”

The crowd dispersed shortly after, and Mr. Porter shut the door to the drawing room with a firm thud.

“I  _ will _ write my brother,” Maggie whispered to Milly as they made their way back downstairs, still arm-in-arm.

“I should think so,” said Milly, similarly  _ sotto voce. _ “I’ll post it for you so the hall boy doesn’t tattle.”

Maggie squeezed her friend’s wrist in gratitude and separated their arms. “We ought to get back to work,” she said. “Mistress’s dresses won’t mend themselves.”

“Lessons are cancelled for the day in light of recent events, but I suppose I can find some useful task for myself.”

“I suppose that means you’re going to be reading one of your novels for the rest of the afternoon,” Maggie said wryly.

Milly laughed. “Not a novel! Miss Wollstonecraft is an essayist and a philosopher.”

“Nothing can be said against the betterment of your mind, but I do not believe Mr. Porter would appreciate you teaching his daughters the philosophy of Miss Wollstonecraft.”

“That is precisely why I must do so.”

“Why, Miss Milly Greene! I had not taken you for a revolutionary.”

“Is it so revolutionary to want equality of the sexes?” Milly asked. “Then so be it. I am a revolutionary! I am off to join the Johannites!” She hitched up her skirts and made to rush off down the hallway, but Maggie grabbed at her elbow, and they collapsed against the wall in a mutual fit of giggles.

“I really must finish my mending,” Maggie said a few minutes later, after they had both regained their composure. “I’ll write my brother afterward.”

“I will make some excuse to go into town after luncheon,” said Milly, “if you think your letter will be ready by afternoon post.”

Maggie nodded. “Thank you.”

Milly waved off her gratitude. “It is nothing. I likely would have written to one of the magicians myself, impertinent though it may be. One being your brother’s master only makes it all the more likely that our concerns will be attended to.”

Maggie smiled to think of how her brother might attend to the Porters’ concerns, had the letter come from anyone but her. “Good day, Milly,” she said with a small curtsey.

“Good day, Maggie.” Milly curtseyed as well and made her way down the hallway toward the servants’ entrance.

Maggie sighed and returned to her mending.

\---

Maggie did not receive a reply from her brother for over a week. When she did, it was a strange, harried account of a series of impossible-sounding events that took place in and around Hurtfew Abbey, which she recognized as the home of his now-former employer, and the small village of Starecross, which she had never heard of but would soon become quite significant, if her brother were to be believed. (She had conflicting thoughts on that matter.) She showed the letter to Milly, but the handwriting was so spiky and rushed that Milly could barely decipher it, and Maggie was obliged to summarize its salient points.

“Magic has returned to England,” she said. “And so has the Raven King.” Maggie squinted at the letter. “And then there is something about a hanged man with a book— no, the hanged man  _ is  _ the Book, with a capital  _ B _ — written by the Raven King himself.” Maggie sat back in her chair. “Well. It seems all of England is in an uproar.”

“Except, perhaps, Duffield,” said Milly with a small smile. “I don’t believe I have ever heard of an uproar reaching Duffield.”

They were sitting in Milly’s small cottage on the grounds behind Duffield Hall, sharing a late-night cup of coffee and several glasses of mulled wine. Maggie’s fingers ached; two of the footmen were sick with the flu, so it had fallen to her to polish the silver in their stead. It was not a task she particularly liked, and she resented Mrs. Hughes for assigning it to her instead of to one of the hall boys. She was very pleased, therefore, to be sitting with her friend and drinking wine. “Nor have I,” she said. “I rather miss Yorkshire. I like a good uproar, now and again.”

“We may be bound for one, if word gets out about little Florence.”

Maggie’s brother had assured her that it was perfectly possible little Florence had truly performed magic. He did not need to investigate to say so; he believed that most of the reports of magic across the country (some of which had even reached Duffield) were true, if somewhat exaggerated.

“It’s only a matter of time,” Milly continued. “The maids are incorrigible gossips. Present company excluded, of course.” She winked.

Maggie had to laugh. “No, no! I am the worst gossip of all.”

Milly sipped her wine, savoring the taste before swallowing. “You pretend to be,” she said, “but only for inconsequential matters that are no news to anybody. You keep the valuable information to yourself, until you believe the time is right for you to whisper it in the correct ear.”

Maggie took a long pull of wine to cover her discomfort. “You make me sound like a spymaster. If I do as you say, I assure you it isn’t intentional.”

“Intentional or not, it is clever.  _ Ipsa scientia potestas est.” _

“I have not had the advantage of an upper-class education. My Latin is surpassingly poor.”

Milly smiled thinly. “The phrase means  _ knowledge itself is power, _ though I do not think Mr. Bacon had women in mind when he penned it. Male philosophers rarely take women into consideration when constructing their philosophies.”

“That is why you turn to female philosophers, I suppose,” said Maggie.

“Precisely. It is a modern age, and the time is long gone for women’s ideas to be dismissed from the sphere of rationality.”

“You are wasted on the Porters,” Maggie said. “You ought to give lectures in London or Oxford.”

It was Milly’s turn to laugh. “London or Oxford! Perish the thought. Imagine me, the governess of Nowhere Hall in Nothing-field, standing up in front of the society of London or all the lordlings at Oxford, and delivering a lecture on why they ought to take women’s ideas seriously. I’d be the laughingstock of the country. No, dearest Maggie, it would not do.” She fixed a smile on her face, but Maggie could see the faint traces of sadness lingering around her eyes and in the corners of her mouth. “Now, tell me about your new beau.”

Maggie blushed furiously. “Mr. Hastings is not my beau,” she said.

Milly raised an eyebrow. “I have seen the way you smile when you receive a letter from him.”

“He isn’t! It isn’t… certain. Mr. Hastings is a widower.”

“But you like him?”

A broad smile stole over Maggie’s face, quite without her consent. “Aye, very much.”

“I only hope he is equal to your regard. Does he live in the town?”

Maggie nodded. “He is a leather-worker, mostly for the saddle-maker, though I understand he sometimes does small matters for the cobbler as well.”

“Does he have any children from his previous marriage?”

“Two young girls. Darling creatures, though full of mischief with no mother to raise them proper.”

“I should be delighted to meet them all, sometime.”

Maggie smiled. “As soon as it can be arranged.”

They sat in silence for some minutes and sipped their beverages.

Milly was the first to speak. “What do you make of the return of the Raven King?”

“I am not sure,” Maggie said carefully. “It is surprising, to say the least. Why now?”

“Why now indeed?”

“Well, what do you make of it?” Maggie asked when it became apparent Milly would not speak further unless prompted.

“I scarcely know. I am not a northerner like yourself. I was not raised on legends of the Raven King.”

Maggie did not consider herself to be  _ raised, _ precisely.  _ Taught to beg and steal at a young age _ was more appropriate. Children of her ilk were not raised; they  _ survived. _ She did not correct her friend, however. “I’m not sure how instructive the legends are, in any case. They may have become so distorted with time and retelling that they bear no resemblance to the truth.”

“There is often truth to be found even in folly,” said Milly, “especially such well-remembered folly. Come, tell me the legends you know, so I may be prepared for when His Grace himself rides through Duffield and the family is to receive him.”

“Aye, very well,” Maggie said, laughing. “I shall tell you the story of the Raven King and the apple tree. It is said to have occurred here, if you can believe it, or very near. My brother told it me when we were young. It begins like this: In the year 1247, the Raven King rode alone over the land on a mission only he himself knew…”


	2. Under Cloud and Under Star

**May 1817**

Tea with Segundus’s landlady went well— far better than Segundus could have expected. Mrs. Sparrow received them in her charming drawing room. She served them tea herself, though she surely could have had her footman do it, and she watched them all with clever brown eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses. Not a single strand of her iron-grey hair was out of place, nor had Segundus ever seen one to be. She was a woman who valued order, he knew— order of her person and order of her world— and she was one of the lucky few who had the means to impose her will upon her demesne. Sipping hot tea and nibbling on dainty tea-cakes, Segundus and Childermass explained the nature of their mission while she watched them across the spindly-legged, white-ash table. (Mrs. Sparrow did not believe in tablecloths. Segundus had tried to talk her into it, but she informed him that she had not listened to her husband on the matter, nor any of her sons and daughters, and she did not intend to listen to him either.)

“The Johannites claim to be followers of the Raven King,” Childermass said, delicate teacup held between careful fingers. “Magic is inextricably linked to the Raven King. Their devotion may draw his attention, and I cannot say with certainty that his attention is a boon. Therefore, we must investigate for the sake of the future of English magic.”

Mrs. Sparrow leaned back in her chair, which creaked ominously. “Well, that sounds quite serious.”

Childermass nodded with great solemnity and took a bite of a tea-cake.

“I feel for them, you know,” Mrs. Sparrow said. “Poor fellows. To be put out of one’s work is a dreadful thing. Still, I suppose it is inevitable.”

Segundus could feel Childermass’s whole body stiffen slightly beside him. “Inevitable, is it?” said Childermass.

“I suppose it must be. The Machine-Breakers cannot hope to accomplish what they seek to by destroying machinery and setting fire to factories. One cannot halt the forward march of progress, especially through such methods.” Mrs. Sparrow’s eyes fixed upon Childermass. “I fear I’ve offended you. My apologies.”

Childermass offered her a wry smile. “Mrs. Sparrow, if I were offended by everyone who expressed an opinion contrary to my own, I would become so bogged down with indignation that I would cease to function.” He took another bite of the tea-cake and chewed thoughtfully. “Is it progress, truly, when men are put out of their livelihoods and machines fill the workshops instead?”

“I expect so,” Mrs. Sparrow said with a slight frown. “The workshops can produce much more than they did before, as I understand it.”

“But is that  _ progress?” _ Childermass leaned forward, tea-cake entirely forgotten. His eyes were intent upon Mrs. Sparrow’s, and Segundus felt as though he were immobilized between two great forces pushing at him from either side. Even Vinculus was paying attention. “Or is it merely modernity masquerading as progress?”

“I fail to see the distinction. Progress and modernity are inextricably linked.”

“Vinculus here is proof against that, I should think,” Segundus interjected. Both Mrs. Sparrow and Childermass looked at him in surprise, as though they had forgotten that he was there. “He represents a great deal of progress in the study and practice of English magic, does he not? And yet he is an artifact of a king of an earlier age. He is quite the opposite of modern.”

“I believe I take your meaning,” said Childermass. “Though he has been rewritten, he remains the Raven King’s Book. A progress in magic, yet undeniably the antithesis of what modern magic stands for.”

Vinculus nodded in agreement. “I never held with Mr. Norrell’s ideas, myself.”

“The Johannites  _ are _ followers of the Raven King,” said Segundus. “It seems to me that they would care more about protecting their livelihoods than about being modern.” Childermass half-smiled at him, and Segundus felt himself go warm to the tips of his ears.

“But modernity will come for them, whether they will it or no!” Mrs. Sparrow exclaimed. “Just as it shall come for us all.”

“That may be so,” Childermass said. He too leaned back from the table. “And it shall be a great tragedy if it does.”

Their audience with Mrs. Sparrow concluded shortly after, as Childermass cited the pressing need to secure transportation to Duffield. Mrs. Sparrow waved them off with many heartfelt wishes for Segundus’s good health and the promise that she would not rent out his room while he was absent. Segundus hefted his valise, which he had filled mainly with books and a few sets of clothing as an afterthought, and they set off down the street to the nearest coach service.

“It rather seems to me,” Segundus said as Childermass steered their steps, “that you  _ want  _ the Johannites to win.”

Childermass did not react. He had the training of a servant, though, and was adept at controlling his reactions; Segundus could not be sure what thoughts he might be concealing. “I suppose I feel some kinship with them,” he said. “They have been stripped of their ability to practice their crafts through no fault of their own, and they feel as though destruction and vandalism are their only means of justice. It is a feeling I am familiar with.”

This revelation surprised Segundus. He had known of Childermass’s low birth and shadowy past, but not the effect it had on the man. “Do you wish to aid the rebellion, then?”

Childermass was silent for a few long moments as he led the small group through the narrow winding streets of York. “I do,” he said finally. “And I do not. What I wish is not important. It is a dangerous time to be a Johannite. I do not believe they will appreciate the results their particular methods will win for them.”

“Ah,” Segundus said. He did not quite know how to respond.

They did not, in fact, need to rent a hackney coach. As luck would have it, Segundus ran into Mr. Honeyfoot (in the most literal sense— they collided on the street, as neither were watching where they were going: Segundus had been arguing with Vinculus, and Mr. Honeyfoot had been contemplating the nature of clouds) outside of a bookshop. Mr. Honeyfoot was feeling somewhat recovered from his illness, he said: recovered enough to be about on the street, but not quite enough to attend meetings of the Learned Society, excitable as they had become of late. Segundus quite understood and informed his dear friend of where he would be going.

“All the way to Duffield?” Mr. Honeyfoot repeated. “You must allow me to lend you the use of my coach.”

“No, I could not take your coach from you, not with you in such a state,” insisted Segundus.

“I would not have you go to any difficulties on your journey.”

“And I would not deprive you of your own hired man!”

Such it went for some time, all in the middle of a busy York street. Vinculus grew bored, Childermass grew impatient, and Mr. Honeyfoot and Segundus grew increasingly frustrated with each other.

“My dear Mr. Segundus,” Mr. Honeyfoot said, running a hand through his greying hair in agitation. “You will either take my coach or I shall go to every rental service in York until I find the one you used and demand that they send me your bill.”

After such a threat, Segundus could do nothing but acquiesce. “Very well,” he said. “But only for the journey there. I do not know how long I will be gone. I will sort something out for the return. And I shall pay for your coachman’s expenses myself.”

Mr. Honeyfoot gave a tired sort of laugh. “I suppose we can compromise on that. Have a very safe journey, my dear fellow, and do write.”

As the day wore on, Segundus’s enthusiasm regarding the coach waned. Vinculus’s company became grating around the time they passed through Selby, and he felt trapped within the coach walls somehow. He longed to be out under the open sky, though it was covered over with a heavy layer of clouds. Even opening the windows and sticking his head out wasn’t enough, and Childermass, Vinculus, and Bradshaw — their coachman — laughed at him when a gust of wind caught the wide brim of his hat and swept it away. They were obliged to stop and allow Segundus to chase after his wayward hat. Afterward, Segundus sulked within the confines of the coach and did his best to read the periodicals he had been neglecting, though he found he could not focus.

Childermass rode ahead of the coach, so Segundus caught only glimpses of him. Still, from what he could see, Childermass looked very dark and forbidding astride his magnificent horse. He looked  _ magical _ , like something out of a Romantic novel.  _ How could he have ever forgotten this man? _ Segundus wondered, not for the first time. Suddenly, he was overcome by curiosity to know more of this strange shadowy figure who rode in and out of his life, turning it upside down each time like the worst sort of Gothic hero. Who was he, truly? What manner of man was John Childermass? When they stopped for the night in a public house in Leeds, Segundus made an offhand suggestion that he might like to find a horse for himself in the morning.

Childermass frowned as he packed his pipe. “I thought you were pleased with the coach.”

“I am, mostly,” said Segundus. He cast about himself as though the age-worn walls of the pub might have an explanation written on them that would please Childermass, or perhaps one of the other patrons chatting quietly nearby might get up and whisper the correct answer in his ear. He found no such easy explanation, however, so he was forced to answer for himself. “I find myself in need of… well, country air, I suppose.”

“That wouldn’t be a slight against me, would it, Mr. Segundus?” Vinculus said. “Because I assure you, I bathed just last week.”

“You stood out in the rain for an hour,” said Childermass. “That doesn’t count as a bath.”

“Longest time I ever took to clean myself,” Vinculus muttered.

Childermass lit his pipe and took a few puffs. “Well, if it is not down to the pungence of your traveling companion, what is this about?”

Segundus had difficulty putting his particular desire into words. He thought that his notions of wandering across an English moor on horseback might sound ridiculous if spoken aloud, and he suspected that Childermass would have told him to stop reading Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. As though there were something wrong with novels! He supposed Childermass had never read a novel in his life. Besides, Childermass himself was a magician who wandered English moors on horseback, so he’d know better than anyone what it was like. Segundus did not want to presume. “I thought we might talk about magic, sir,” he said after a moment of hesitation.

Childermass exhaled smoke and did not speak. He seemed to be waiting for Segundus to continue.

“I had some questions about this… sensitivity to magic we seem to share,” Segundus said. He felt rather guilty. It was an invention— but now that he thought about it, he found that he did indeed have questions and more than a few concerns.

“You may ask your questions now, if you like.” Childermass gestured with his pipe.

“I would prefer to discuss it tomorrow. I am feeling rather worn out.” That at least was not an invention. Segundus was indeed tired from a long day of travel with a dreary companion, and he found more and more often as he aged that he didn’t travel as well as he used to when he was younger. At the moment, he felt rather like a plant that had been taken out of its home in the earth and carried off to be resettled elsewhere. Now he lay, roots exposed, waiting to be placed in welcoming soil once more. He was not a sturdy moor-plant, he supposed, but something more delicate. A rose, perhaps, or an orchid. He wasn’t sure if he liked the comparison and abruptly grew cross with himself for making it.

“Are you sure you will be comfortable enough on a horse?” Childermass asked.

“I  _ do _ know how to ride,” Segundus said, annoyed.

“I never said you did not.”

“You suggested it.”

Childermass sighed. “Not on purpose.”

“But you—”

“ _ Please, _ Mr. Segundus,” Childermass interrupted. “It has been a pleasant enough day. Can we not ruin it with arguing?”

“I am not arguing,” Segundus muttered. To add insult to injury, he could feel his hair, limp from a day of travel, coming out of its carefully-combed style. He had yet to find a mousse strong enough to counteract the strange effects magic had on him. Normally, he could keep it tamed beneath a hat, but that wasn’t an option at mealtimes. His hair drifted about as though carried by the wind. Childermass tried unsuccessfully to hide his smile behind his pipe, and Vinculus didn’t even bother trying but grinned openly. Segundus brushed a disobedient lock of hair out of his eye, and his annoyance mounted into full-blown irritation. He stood. “I am very tired. I think I shall go upstairs.”

Childermass slid Segundus’s room key across the table. “Be up early. We will need time to find you a horse in the morning.”

Segundus’s hair was starting to draw glances. He snatched the key and hurried upstairs to his room. The lock gave him a bit of trouble, and he had to fumble with the key for a few moments before he could get it to turn. His room for the night wasn’t large, but it looked comfortable enough. Someone— a maid, perhaps— had been in earlier to light the oil lamps along the walls. The vine-patterned wallpaper was slightly stained in places, and the bed looked lumpy and a bit narrow, but Segundus supposed it would be good enough for the night. A stern-looking woman watched disapprovingly from a portrait as Segundus untied his neck-cloth and unbuttoned his waistcoat, and he thought for an absurd moment that he ought to cover her eyes. He did not realize until he had stripped himself down to his shirtsleeves that he had quite forgotten his jacket downstairs. His pique reached a new height, and he paced back and forth across the narrow room— setting the floorboards creaking, but he supposed the patrons in the tavern below would not mind too much— debating whether he wanted to go downstairs to fetch it.

No, he decided. It would still be there in the morning, and he found that he could not bear the thought of seeing Childermass’s mocking face. As soon as he made the decision, his vexation drained away, leaving him feeling empty and weary. He sagged into the armchair, his head low. Faint sounds of chatter and lively laughter drifted up from downstairs, and for some minutes, Segundus found that he did not even have the energy to move from his seat. Eventually he bestirred himself to remove his boots and stockings. Just as he began to unbutton his shirt, a knock sounded on his door. It was so quiet that at first Segundus thought it must be coming from across the hall, or perhaps that he had imagined it, until it sounded again, almost as faint as the first time.

Segundus stood and was at the door in just a few strides. It had no peep-hole, so he opened it a crack. He expected a footman or a housekeeper of some sort, but instead, he saw the slouched and dark form of Childermass.

“I brought your coat,” Childermass said. “You ought not leave it.”

“No,” said Segundus. He opened the doorway fully and took the proffered coat. “Thank you.”

Childermass looked beyond him into the room. “Will you be comfortable here?”

“Comfortable enough,” Segundus said.

“Good.”

In the flickering light, Childermass’s eyes looked as dark as the night sky, and Segundus found that he could not look away. He felt very naked, partially undressed as he was, feet bare against the worn-smooth floorboards (somehow, his bare feet made it all the worse). He was not used to being  _ looked at _ the way Childermass was doing, as though Segundus were an object of fascination and delight, as though Segundus were desired. Not  _ desired, _ in such a sense— Segundus felt his ears heat, and he quickly turned his thoughts in a different direction— but wanted. Valued, perhaps. Segundus could not remember the last time anyone had looked at him in such a manner.

He shifted uncomfortably. “I think I will turn in.”

“Aye,” Childermass said. “I will see you in the morning, then.”

Segundus nodded, and Childermass turned and strode away silently.

Segundus performed his nighttime routine in a daze. He kept picking things up and forgetting where he put them down, and he almost went to bed without removing his breeches. It took him longer than usual to put himself in order, but finally he was ready. He crawled between the bedsheets with a heavy sigh. The bed was indeed lumpy, he found to his displeasure, though the sheets smelled clean, and he found no indication of bedbugs or mites or any other member of the group of pests that often inhabited such beds.

Despite his weariness, once he was actually in bed, Segundus found that he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned on the lumpy bed for what felt like hours, staring up at the ceiling-boards above him or at one wall or another. He had blown the lamps out earlier, but the moonlight streaming in through the window was more than enough to illuminate the clock face on the far wall. The hands seemed to move too slow and too fast at once. Segundus felt as though the night’s hours slipped away from him while he lay sleepless, yet when he looked at the clock again, he was surprised to see that so little time had passed. He thought briefly about ringing for warm milk or chamomile tea, but he didn’t want to cause a fuss.

In the late hours of the night, all alone in his dark room, Segundus’s thoughts strayed down the path he had kept them from earlier: desire _. _ It was not a topic he often allowed himself to dwell on, but he found he couldn’t help himself now. Did Childermass…  _ desire _ him? It had almost seemed so, in the moment, but Segundus couldn’t be sure he wasn’t simply imagining things. Segundus did not consider himself a risky man, and he wasn’t prepared to take any chances with something of this importance unless he were absolutely certain. He had never heard Childermass speak of a wife, and pretty women in the street never turned his head. In fact, he wasn’t certain if Childermass felt any desire at all.

Did  _ he _ desire  _ Childermass? _ The man was disobliging, vexing beyond belief, and the possessor of many bad habits. His hair was always unkempt, for example, and his hands were weather-roughened and coarse from his horse’s reins. And Segundus should not have thought about Childermass’s hands, because now he was imagining those same hands upon his body, and his own hands in Childermass’s hair. He thought of how Childermass might look if his clothes were rumpled and his hair mussed, not from travel or work but from such activities as mutual desire might lead to, and he felt his body respond to the images in his mind.

Segundus was struck by a bolt of intense guilt. Not over his feelings for another man— he had long ago learned to separate morality and legality— but because the man was Childermass. His usual imaginings (on the rare occasion he allowed himself to indulge) were nameless, faceless, more sensation than substance. He felt as though he were doing Childermass a disservice by allowing him to appear in fantasies that he was quite sure Childermass would object to.

But he  _ wasn’t _ sure Childermass would object, was he? What if he did not? What if Childermass had similar fantasies? Segundus couldn’t presume he might feature in Childermass’s nightly imaginings, but perhaps some other man did. Then, at least, Childermass would understand. For a brief, electric moment, he allowed himself to pretend that Childermass  _ didn’t _ object, that Childermass was, in fact, quite eager.

Segundus groaned and gave in to desire.

Afterward, he felt a lingering sense of shame, as though he had betrayed Childermass in some way. It was not fair to him to use his image in such a manner, and Segundus resolved to never do it again. Finally, finally, he felt himself sinking toward slumber. His weary limbs grew heavy, and sleep took him not long after.

\---

The shame followed Segundus about the next morning like an unpleasant perfume. He found he could not quite look Childermass in the eye. His responses to Childermass’s questions and prompts were more curt than usual, and by the time they were finished with breakfast, Childermass had given up any attempts to engage him in conversation. They sought out a horse for Segundus in a stony silence, Vinculus trailing behind with an air of annoyance and confusion.

“You are quite sure you don’t want to ride in the coach?” Childermass asked as a sleepy-eyed groom saddled an equally sleepy-eyed gelding. “Bradshaw assured me that his coach is the most comfortable model on the market.”

Bradshaw, standing nearby, nodded fervently.

Segundus bristled. “Would you prefer that?”

“It is up to you,” said Childermass with a tiny sigh.

“Well, I do not want to inflict my company upon you if it would not be welcome!” Segundus flushed when he remembered the exact type of company he had inflicted upon Childermass in his imaginings last night. “Perhaps I ought to ride in the coach if I am so disagreeable to you, sir.”

Childermass threw his hands up in despair. “Just get on the bloody horse and let’s be on wi’ it.”

Thus chastised, Segundus got on the horse.

\---

**March 1817**

One cool, rainy morning in the middle of March, Maggie received a letter from Mr. Oliver Hastings. This was not an unusual occurrence, as they corresponded regularly and often saw each other on the occasions when Maggie managed to slip into the village on some errand or another, but Maggie was thrilled nonetheless. Milly was not there to tease her for how she smiled, for governesses did not eat with servants. In any case, there was no time to open it, for as soon as it was handed to her, a bell at the back of the servants’ hall rang. The family had arisen, and it was time for the day’s work to begin.

The letter weighed heavy in Maggie’s pocket all day. She thought about it while stripping bedding from beds. She thought about it while blacking mistress’s shoes. She thought about it while dusting and mopping and cleaning and throughout all the menial chores demanded of a housemaid. She scarcely got a moment to open it, but the thought of doing so, of taking the time to read the words penned so carefully by her handsome admirer, cheered her greatly and buoyed her through the day. Not long after the family had gone to bed and the last of her chores were complete, she was able to partake in the happy tradition of visiting Milly’s cottage after dark for coffee and good spirits.

“Open it!” Milly urged her, gesturing eagerly with her coffee-cup. “You must let me read what he has written.”

“He is my admirer, not yours,” Maggie said, smiling. “If you want to read pretty words of affection, find one of your own.”

Milly returned her smile, though Maggie detected a hint of bitterness in it. “Ah, there is no hope for me. No man wants to marry a governess. I shall die an old maid, penniless and alone. My only hope for happiness is through you. So please, open it and let us see what Mr. Hastings has written!”

“You are worse than a schoolgirl,” Maggie chided her as she broke the wax seal.

“If I am, it is because you keep me in the cruelest form of suspense!”

Maggie laughed at that and scanned the letter. It contained all the pretty words of affection she could have hoped for, and more besides; despite his station in life, Mr. Hastings was a well-read man. Maggie handed the first page, full of pleasant trivialities, off to Milly to sigh over. Her smile froze in place, then slowly turned into a frown, as she read and re-read the rest of the letter.

It was a matter of moments before Milly noticed her changed mood. “Maggie? Whatever is the matter?”

_ “It is my sad duty to inform you that my work with the saddle-maker is soon to be decreased or even stopped altogether,” _ Maggie read aloud.  _ “He has purchased a machine that he says can do the work twice as fast and twice as well as I. My work with the cobbler will fortunately continue, and I may take up work at Yew Tree Farm. My friend Peter Ainsworth has agreed to hire me as he too has lost his employment as a weaver at the textile mill and has returned to his family farm.” _ The letter went on to detail the sort of work he might be expected to undertake on the farm. Maggie scanned the next paragraph until something caught her eye. “Listen to this—  _ The country has changed much in the past several years, and it is evident that it will go on changing. The return of the Raven King has caused much turmoil in London, and lords and ministers are anxious to protect their power and their wealth. As you know better than anyone, my dearest Maggie, being a Yorkshirewoman yourself, John Uskglass has always been a symbol of revolution, and that makes the lords uneasy.” _

“Revolution!” Milly repeated. “Surely he cannot mean—!”

“There’s more,” said Maggie. She continued to read.  _ “Ainsworth has convinced me that something must be done to secure the livelihoods of men such as ourselves— and women such as you. For if machines can replace us, how long will it be before you, too, can be replaced? We are meeting tonight at Yew Tree Farm, just outside of town. I invite you to join us and listen to what Ainsworth has to say. _ ” Maggie set down the letter. “Well! I wish I had opened it earlier. I hardly know how to respond.”

“How mysterious,” Milly said. “You must go! I only hope it is not too late.”

Maggie glanced at the letter again. “Must I? This sounds dangerous. What if he’s getting mixed up in that Johannite business?”

“Then these men need a sensible woman’s voice to set them aright.” Milly hesitated. “But your Mr. Hastings is correct. The world is changing. Perhaps too fast for some and not fast enough for others, but either way, I think you should hear Mr. Ainsworth’s thoughts.”

Maggie nodded, her mind made up. “I shall go there directly.” She tidied up her coffee cup and buttoned herself into her long wool overcoat and was nearly out the door when she paused. “Would you like to come as well?”

Milly tilted her head, considering. “Not tonight, I think,” she said. “I was not invited, and they may distrust a stranger. Perhaps you could speak to Mr. Hastings about extending an invitation to me if they meet again, if you would not mind.”

“Certainly.”

Milly flashed her a smile, and Maggie quitted the small cottage without further ado.

\---

Duffield at night was a different town. What were familiar and friendly shapes and shops in the sunlight turned into looming barrows and gloomy shadows under the frigid light of the half-moon. Maggie had not thought to ask for a lamp, but she knew the way through town well enough that she managed not to stumble too frequently on the cobblestone roads. Most of the windows in town were dark, and Maggie fretted as she hurried across town that she was too late. Such was the life of a servant, she mused— to start work too early and to stop too late. She was grateful to her brother, of course, for finding her honest work, but sometimes she wished she had the all options for employment men had.  _ Perhaps Milly and Miss Wollstonecraft are on to something. _ These thoughts carried her down the yew-lined lane to the eccentric little farmhouse where she hoped she might find Mr. Hastings. Fortunately, a few of the windows glowed with warm lamp-light. Maggie picked her way across the muddy yard, raised her hand to knock on the door— and hesitated.

Maggie knew she was standing in the middle of a crossroads, there on the porch of the farmhouse. Her own little path, the one she had chosen decades ago, lay out behind her, dull and unremarkable. She knew where it led— she could be head housemaid, maybe even a housekeeper or a lady’s maid in time. There was still time to stay on that path, to turn around, to go back to Duffield Hall and hope that her life might continue on uninterrupted.

But there was another path before her as well, which she might choose if she so desired. She couldn’t be sure where it led, except forward into a changed England where she might be something more than a housemaid.

_ You are not a coward, Margaret le Roy, _ she told herself firmly.  _ Do not let the world leave you behind. _

She knocked firmly on the door.

A murmur of voices sounded from inside, and the door opened just a crack, revealing a sliver of an unfamiliar man’s face and a mop of red hair. “Miss le Roy?” he asked.

Maggie nodded. “Mr. Ainsworth?”

“Aye.” He opened the door fully and gestured for her to step inside. “I didn’t think you’d made it, but Hastings never lost faith.”

“Stubborn man,” Maggie said fondly as she entered.

Ainsworth led her through the hall to a cozy dining room. The stone walls were lined with wooden shelves, darkened with age and bearing pots, pans, dishes, and jars of mismatched size and color. A cheerful fire burned in the large brick fireplace, and a tea service, as mismatched as the rest of the cookware, sat in the middle of the table. Hastings stood when Maggie entered, earning him a chuckle from Ainsworth and an unfamiliar man with hair the color of wheat-chaff who sat at the table, but he smiled at her easily enough and without embarrassment.

“Care for some tea?” Hastings asked. “Or Ainsworth has beer, if you’d prefer.”

“Tea is fine,” Maggie said. She sat and accepted the cup that Hastings passed her.

Ainsworth introduced Maggie to the man at the table, whose name turned out to be James Goddard. “He worked at the mill with me,” Ainsworth said. “We lost our jobs on the same day.”

Goddard leaned across the table and offered his hand for a handshake. Some of Maggie’s surprise must have shown on her face, for his wide mouth stretched into a grin and his pale eyes twinkled.

“Don’t tease her,” Hastings grumbled. “She’s not used to your rapscallion ways.”

Goddard laughed at that. “Sure, I’ll be nice.”

“Keep it down, the lot of you,” said Ainsworth. “My wife is asleep.”

Maggie stifled a yawn. “As I should be. Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Ainsworth, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear why Mr. Hastings has summoned me here late at night.”

“Yes, of course.” Ainsworth sat and took a sip of tea, then stood again and paced, as though he had too much energy to constrain himself to a chair. “I’ve already talked with the others about this—”

“We weren’t sure if you’d show up, begging your pardon,” Goddard interrupted.

“Quiet, man. As I was saying, because it’s late and Goddard and Hastings already know what I’m going to say, I won’t take long. Hastings keeps abreast of things, and he says that craftsmen like us are losing their jobs, all across the country.” Ainsworth paused and looked to Hastings, who nodded in agreement. “Lords get rich off their investments in the mills and factories, while men like us are given our walking papers and thrown out on the streets with no plan, no money, and no future. Men are  _ angry,  _ and for once, they’re angry at the right people.” Ainsworth stopped his pacing and took a deep breath. “The world is changing. England may be on the brink of a revolution, with the Raven King returned and civil unrest in every major city, and I for one am in favor of it.”

His speech left Maggie dumbstruck. Hastings had mentioned the possibility of revolution in his letter, but that had not prepared Maggie for the shock of hearing that his friend might actually desire one. “And what do the two of you think, sirs?” she asked when she found her voice again.

“I am in favor of it as well,” said Hastings.

“As am I,” Goddard said. “There we go, that’s three for revolution. Motion passed.”

Despite the situation, Maggie couldn’t help but giggle. “So you are proposing to become Johannites, then?”

Hastings sighed. “I’ll be the first to admit I have no great love for the Raven King. Unlike Ainsworth and yourself, I feel no great loyalty to him, traitorous as that may sound.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow at Ainsworth, who shrugged. “My mother was from Newcastle,” he said, and Maggie nodded.

Hastings continued as though he hadn’t noticed the interruption. “But the Black King is undeniably a force of change. Things are changing now whether we will it or no, and we need to make sure some of it’s in our favor. The lords don’t listen when we go before Parliament to talk about the working-class men who can’t even feed their families. The factory owners don’t listen when we ask for higher wages, and then we lose our jobs anyway. Mistress wouldn’t listen to you, Maggie, if you told her what you tell me of how you ache every day from working yourself to the bone. So we make them listen the only way we can: by threatening their power.”

Ainsworth began pacing again. “You must understand,” he said, “we don’t want destruction for destruction’s sake, as has been said of Johannites in the past. I don’t suggest we go out at night and burn down the mill in hopeless defiance. If we are to be rebels, we must approach rebellion with the goal of shaping a better future for ourselves and all men like us.”

“We’ve all got a choice,  _ Miss le Roy,” _ Hastings said, his dark eyes intent on hers. “We can hope that things will get better on their own, or we can make them better ourselves. What’ll it be?”

This, then, was where the path from crossroads led, toward a world where Maggie didn’t have to wear herself out polishing the silver or scrubbing the floors until she was no more than a mess of aching limbs; toward a world where working men’s lives were not lived in uncertainty and instability and her Mr. Hastings did not have to worry about how he was going to provide for his daughters; toward revolution.

Maggie took a deep breath and nodded. “Sirs, I have a friend you really ought to meet.”


	3. A Question of Propriety

**May 1817**

“You wanted to talk about magic?” Childermass asked later as Leeds faded behind early-morning mist.

“Did I?” Segundus startled out of his reverie. “Oh, yes, I suppose I did.”

Childermass frowned. “You are miles away today. Is this about last night?”

Segundus whirled around to face him so quickly that he almost fell out of his saddle. “Last night?” he asked over Childermass’s stifled laughter. “Nothing happened last night. What on Earth do you mean about last night?”

“With your hair,” Childermass said. His smile slowly faded. “It seemed to upset you.”

“Oh. Yes. I suppose it did, rather.” Segundus settled back in his saddle. Wretched thing— the seat had some sort of embossing that caused his breeches to chafe, and the cantle was entirely the wrong shape. “I did not realize you cared.”

Childermass huffed a mirthless laugh. “So that is how it is going to be, is it?”

“I cannot think of what you mean.” Segundus stared resolutely across the moorside. The land was hillier here than around York, and mist clung to the hollows of the earth. The overcast sky promised rain that day. Segundus only hoped it might be later in the evening, after they’d already stopped for the night, but he didn’t expect his wish to be granted. Perhaps he might get more use out of Bradshaw’s coach after all.

“Very well, then,” Childermass said, so quietly that Segundus could barely hear it over the sound of the coach-wheels and horses’ hooves. “If you are regretting coming with me—” Segundus’s face radiated heat so brightly he was shocked Childermass did not notice “—then I hope you know you may leave at any time.”

“I would not abandon you, sir,” said Segundus.

Childermass looked over at him, a slight frown on his face. “No?”

Segundus shook his head firmly, though he was surprised at his own resolve. After all, he owed Childermass nothing. Less than nothing. In fact, Childermass was likely the debtor between them. He wanted to hang his head in shame as unbidden images came to his mind of the ways Childermass might repay him.

“I am glad to hear it.” Childermass didn’t look very glad. He looked thoughtful, almost pensive, and he did not press Segundus further for conversation.

They rode on for another few hours in almost-silence. The sun never properly broke through the clouds to burn away the fog; even as the day wore on, the morning chill didn’t dissipate. The time for luncheon approached. Segundus wanted to press on to Darton and eat in a public house there, but Childermass insisted that they must limit their spending.

“This journey will be expensive enough as it is,” said Childermass as they passed through a long hedgerow. It was too early for the John’s-Farthings to unfurl their blue-white petals in the shade of the hedges, but their vines and glossy leaves made a thick, dark green carpet along either side of the road.

“What do you suggest?” Segundus snapped. “Shall we subsist on tree roots and moor-flowers?”

“I have made some sandwiches. They should still be good.”

“After being carried about in your saddlebags for a day and a half?”

“Well, I wrapped them up.” Childermass had a mulish expression on his face.

Segundus, who was so used to cool disregard and high-mindedness from Childermass, rather enjoyed the idea that he could vex the man as much as Childermass vexed him.  _ Though Childermass hadn’t been so disdainful in the past few days, had he? _ a small, insidious part of his mind whispered. He didn’t know what to do with Childermass’s newfound regard for his well-being, though— Childermass had noticed things about him, and he was not used to being  _ noticed _ . It just seemed easier to bother Childermass a bit, perhaps to get a rise out of him.

Segundus felt his ears heat once more and wondered if his monthly budget might stretch to accomodate a new hat, since he seemed determined to burn two holes in this one.

“After all,” Childermass continued, and Segundus realized that he had missed a portion of what Childermass had said. “There will be another pub, but my sandwiches will not last forever.”

“Perhaps I don’t want your sandwiches!” said Segundus, still stung by the comment about money and anxious to cover his embarrassment. “Perhaps I would rather eat a good meal prepared by a professional chef.”

Childermass scoffed at that. “You would not find a pub in Dalton with a chef more professional than myself.”

“I was under the impression you were more of a steward— or perhaps an enforcer— for Mr. Norrell. Do you have chef’s training?”

Childermass gave Segundus a look that suggested he was being very stupid. Segundus was familiar with such a look, but he didn’t appreciate it. “I do not.”

They put it to a vote. At first, Vinculus was on Segundus’s side, but then Childermass informed him that he would be paying for himself, and his tune quickly changed. Bradshaw claimed that he would be perfectly happy eating in a pub or in the driver’s seat.

“He is in my favor, then,” said Segundus.

“He is just as much in my favor as in yours,” Childermass retorted. “We are stopping.” He muttered something to the tune of “ _ impossible man _ ” as he dismounted. Segundus briefly considered making a fuss but decided against it.

Segundus was overruled, but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy the sandwiches. He made up his mind to be displeased with them, no matter their quality. He reluctantly dismounted with a wince. He had not ridden in months and could tell his muscles would be stiff and aching that evening. Childermass was watching, though, so he did his best to walk as normally as possible.

They set up luncheon under the shade of a large oak tree just a few paces from the road— rather, they sat in the place where shade would have fallen if the sun had been able to make its way through the thick cloud layer to cast a shadow. As it was, the light was much the same beneath the branches or not, and the ground was damp. Bradshaw had a couple of horse-blankets in the boot of his coach, which he kindly distributed. He also offered around a bottle of ale, which Vinculus eagerly shared. The pair seemed to be getting on quite well, to Segundus’s surprise.

As much as he hated to admit it to himself, the sandwiches were good, if a bit stale. Segundus ate one that was ham-and-cheese and, after much prompting from Childermass, another that was roast-beef-on-buttered-rye. Segundus himself had not brought anything to wash down the sandwiches, so he was obliged to drink from Childermass’s waterskin. He was a rather poor traveller, he reflected to himself as he patted at the water he had managed to spill down the front of his jacket, much to Childermass’s amusement. He had not thought to pack food or waterskins, his shoes were ill-suited for riding, and he was gathering a great number of aches in his back and legs.

“We have made a good pace,” Childermass said as they ate. “We should arrive in Duffield tomorrow evening.”

“So soon?” asked Segundus, surprised. “I thought it would take another half-day, at least.”

“I mean to press on. I want to get to Sheffield today, or near enough.”

“But that is thirty miles from here!” Segundus said with dismay. “We would not get there until nearly ten at night.”

“The ‘orses would be none too pleased,” Bradshaw agreed. “I’m with Mr. Segundus.”

Vinculus only shrugged. “Makes no difference to me,” he said. “So long’s I’m in the coach. It makes a nice change from having to go about everywhere on me own legs. I could certainly get used to riding in a coach.”

“Don’t,” said Childermass. He stood abruptly. “We ought to get on.” He looked almost as though he were going to offer his hand to pull Segundus to his feet, but Segundus stood— muscles protesting— before he had the chance. 

“Thought I’d ride in the footman’s seat,” Vinculus said to Bradshaw as he hitched the horses.

“Don’t see why not,” said Bradshaw.

Childermass grumbled. “The coach was your idea in the first place,” he said to Segundus as they set off once more.

“The coach was a loan, and a horse for Vinculus would have cost us,” Segundus said. “And he is carrying your luggage too, you know.”

“Only because you insisted on it!”

“Well, we cannot very well dispense with it now, can we?” Segundus shifted in his saddle. “We are already this far.”

Childermass turned back to look at the coach behind them just as Bradshaw erupted into a bout of raucous laughter at something Vinculus had said. “No, I suppose we cannot.”

They rode in silence for a few minutes, and Segundus wondered again at Childermass’s changed attitude. The man still bickered and criticized and took every opportunity he could to be difficult, but he also paid attention to Segundus, and not only to find fault. He coaxed Segundus to eat more— Segundus had always been thin, and the ghastly business with Lady Pole only made him more so— and he noticed when things upset him. And then, of course, there was the moment that had occurred the previous night… But Segundus did not allow himself to dwell on that. He had misinterpreted, that was all, and he had allowed his imagination to run wild, and he felt immensely guilty. He should not act as though he might ever tempt the affections of a creature such as Childermass.

“You still have not asked me your questions,” said Childermass, interrupting Segundus’s train of thought.

That was another wonder. Childermass sought out Segundus’s conversation, as though he wanted to  _ talk _ to Segundus or hear his opinions. It was extremely out-of-character; at least, out of the character of the version of Childermass that Segundus knew. He was certain that his version was not far off from the truth, but perhaps there was more to him than met the eye.

“Sir?” Childermass prompted, and Segundus realized he hadn’t replied.

“No, right,” Segundus said. “I have not.” He paused. “I suppose my questions may be rather vague. I was never very good at asking the right ones.”

Childermass smiled his uneven smile at that.

“I suppose I am concerned about, well, great feats of magic,” Segundus continued. “Not that I might ever do any myself, of course! But I am sure others will at some point.”

“And you are worried it might affect you the way Lady Pole did?”

Segundus nodded. “That is about the shape of it. I hope to be around magic and magicians for the rest of my life, and I could not bear it if I must keep myself away from the important discoveries.”

“I do not think you shall have to,” Childermass said after a moment of consideration. “For several reasons. Firstly, Lady Pole’s enchantment was peculiar, and I certainly hope we shall see nowt-o’-th’-sort ever again.”

Segundus shuddered. “We are of one mind on that topic.”

“Secondly,” continued Childermass. “It is my belief that we were so strongly affected because magic had not yet properly returned to England. It was a foreign substance out of place in its environment.”

“I do not see why that should matter.”

Childermass glanced at him. “Do you not? Now that magic has returned, it is part of the land. It is in the air we breathe and the water we drink. It is no longer foreign, it is  _ everywhere _ .”

“And we have gotten used to it, do you mean?”

“Something like that. It has  _ settled _ , shall we say, like a river going back to its usual course after bursting a dam. I expect that we may still be affected by the constant presence of magic— much as your hair has already demonstrated— but it should not be as debilitating as it was at Starecross.”

“Damn my hair,” Segundus muttered.

“I do not see why,” said Childermass mildly. “You are a magician, sir, and you have every right to be as eccentric as you please.”

“You can be very poetical, when it pleases you,” Segundus said. “Why do you not do it more often?”

“Few things inspire me to be poetical, as you put it.” Childermass looked for a moment as though he were about to continue, but he said nothing more.

“Well,” said Segundus after a brief, awkward pause. “I believe you should seek out situations that inspire you. It would be a waste of talent not to.”

Childermass gave him an odd look. “Do you like poetry, Mr. Segundus?”

Segundus opened his mouth to answer in the affirmative, but he was struck by the thought that Childermass was asking two questions at once, and he had only the vaguest idea of what the shape of the other one might be. “I appreciate the Romantics,” he said.  _ Let’s see what he makes of that! _

“I see,” said Childermass after a pause. “Well, I must say, the only poet I can stand is Lord Byron.”

“Ah, Mr. Strange was acquainted with Lord Byron!” Segundus exclaimed. “How unfortunate that you never got the chance to meet him.”

“Indeed,” said Childermass. Segundus saw him watching very closely out of the corner of his eye, but he refused to meet the dark gaze. “And what of Count Platen? Have you read any of his works?”

“I’m afraid my German is rather poor,” Segundus confessed. “And he seems to have a disdain for the Romantic poets that I cannot move past.”

“I understand. I don’t enjoy his works myself, but I thought you might. I myself prefer novels—” Segundus turned to him in surprise “—such as those by Beckford or Lewis, or anything that references mythology. I’m rather taken with the Greeks and the Romans.”

Segundus furrowed his brow. “I cannot say I have come across many novels of that type. As far as novelists go, I prefer Mrs. Radcliffe, or indeed Miss Reeve.”

Childermass gave a tiny, almost imperceptible, sigh. “I see,” he said once again. Forgive me. I thought—”

“Thought what?” Segundus asked when Childermass didn’t continue.

“Nothing. I thought nothing.”

\---

They did not make it to Sheffield that night but were obliged to stop a few hours distant. One of Bradshaw’s horses threw a shoe, so he and Vinculus were forced to dismount and walk alongside the coach. Bradshaw suggested hitching Brewer and Segundus’s borrowed gelding to the coach, but Childermass snapped that Brewer was not trained to pull a coach, and so they limped on slowly to the nearest village. The clouds had cleared in the late afternoon, driven south by the harsh wind. Segundus did not envy the Southern counties which would no doubt bear the brunt of the rainstorm. The sun had set some time ago, and stars winked into existence by the handful as the small group made their plodding way down the road.

“I will ride ahead,” Childermass said as a few lamplights came into view down the road. “And make bookings for us at an inn.”

“I will go with you, if you don’t mind,” said Segundus.

Childermass shot him an odd sort of look but raised no objections, so they kicked their horses into a canter. Segundus shivered as the wind cut through his threadbare jacket.

“Why did you agree to go to Duffield with me?” Childermass asked abruptly as they sailed over the darkened road.

Segundus’s motives were difficult to articulate, even to himself. “I felt… stationary, in York,” he said after a moment of deliberation. “My plans for Starecross were not proceeding—” he glared at Childermass, but the infuriating man didn’t seem to notice. “And I felt I needed a change of pace, so to speak.” Childermass made no response. “Why did you invite me?” Segundus asked, feeling uncharacteristically bold. “There are many magicians more skilled and better-travelled than I. And don’t give me that twaddle about sensibility. There are any number of sensible magicians you might find in Yorkshire if you bothered to look for them.”

That got a reaction. Childermass looked over at him, a brief look of surprise flashing across his face, before turning his attention to the road ahead once more. “I do not believe there are many more skilled magicians than you,” he said into the wind. “In fact, I regard you as one of the most skilled magicians in England.”

It was Segundus’s turn to be surprised. “I had not thought you regarded me at all.”

“Then you are wrong, sir, for I hold you in very high regard.”

Segundus’s stomach flipped over. Surely Childermass couldn’t mean what it almost sounded like he meant. He meant only that— that Segundus was well-regarded in the magical community, which was true enough, he supposed. Or possibly he thought Segundus a decent and steadfast sort of fellow, which Mr. Honeyfoot had himself expressed on many occasions. These were both perfectly reasonable and charitable interpretations. Segundus did not allow himself to hope for anything more. Hope was for his betters, for those more deserving than himself. He must content himself with what scraps of happiness he may find.

Childermass was looking at him again. Segundus could feel the weight of those dark eyes, nearly black in the night, and he once more had the sense that Childermass had said two things to him at once. “I hold you in a similar regard,” he found himself saying. “Though you have been very cruel to me. You were the ruin of my hopes and dreams, you know.”

“Aye,” said Childermass. “I know. Yours and many others. I did not enjoy it.”

“I should hope not!”

“But I was particularly…” Childermass paused. “Affected, shall we say, by putting you in such a position.”

Segundus was not sure how he should respond to that, so he did not for quite some time. The village lights grew brighter, and the air grew colder. “I do not see why,” Segundus said eventually.

“No, sir,” Childermass said, so faintly that he was barely audible.

They slowed their pace as they approached the village. A carved wooden sign with white-painted lettering proclaimed it to be Wortley. There was only one properly paved street; Segundus could see that the others were cobblestone. The whole place looked scarcely larger than Starecross, and he didn’t suppose that more than a few hundred people lived there. The stones of the buildings had a sad look to them, as though they had seen far too much in their long, rocky lives, and wished now to sleep. A few trees stood here and there. They were twisted and gnarled things that seemed to shift at the edge of Segundus’s vision. It was late enough that most of the windows were dark, and the only light came from the street-lamps and the half-full moon above.

To Segundus’s relief, the windows of the Wortley Arms were still brightly lit. The building itself was squat and built of brown and grey stones, and all three of its chimneys streamed smoke into the air, making the sky hazy.

A surly-looking ostler slouched his way over as Childermass and Segundus approached, but his mood brightened considerably once Childermass tossed him a coin. “Give them a nice mash,” Childermass instructed as he dismounted. “They’ve had a hard day.”

As Segundus swung his leg over his horse’s back, the various aches and pains of the day made themselves suddenly known, and his muscles seized up. He lost his grip on the pommel and would have fallen to the ground in an undignified heap if Childermass had not suddenly been behind him. He was a warm, solid presence at Segundus’s back, and his arms caught Segundus about the waist with a surprising strength.

“Careful, sir,” he murmured, close enough for his wiry beard to scrape Segundus’s ear.

Segundus couldn’t help the shiver that ran through his body, and he felt his face heat at his reaction. If Childermass noticed, he gave no indication. Childermass lowered him to the ground, but his legs could barely hold his weight. “I have not ridden in some time,” he managed to force out through teeth clenched against the pain.

“I can see that,” Childermass said. “Why you insisted on it is beyond me.” He hauled one of Segundus’s arms around his shoulder and wrapped his own arm around Segundus’s waist once more. “Expect a coach with two horses before too long,” he said to the groom as he half-carried Segundus toward the front door of the inn.

The innkeeper looked up with a surprised expression that quickly turned alarmed when they entered. “Good evening, sirs,” he said, coming out from behind the low wooden bar counter. “Are you quite alright?”

“Mr. Segundus here is rather a poor rider, I’m afraid,” Childermass said. “But he’s not injured.” Segundus was too focused on not groaning aloud and collapsing to the floor to second Childermass’s statement, so he nodded instead. “Do you have any rooms available?”

“Aye,” the innkeeper said. He brushed his hand over his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “Two rooms. Up a flight of stairs, though. Will that be a problem?”

Segundus would have liked to say that  _ yes, it was very much a problem, he would rather stretch out on the flagstone floor than try to climb a flight of stairs _ , but Childermass spoke first. “Not an insurmountable one. We’ll take them both.” He fumbled with his free hand for his coin-purse and slid over the fare. The innkeeper passed him two keys, but Childermass shook his head. “Keep one. We have two companions joining us: a ragged-looking man in a brown coat and an old hat, and our coachman, who wears livery. Their names are Vinculus and Bradshaw, and they should be here before too long.”

The innkeeper nodded, but his lined face took on an expression of puzzlement. “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you not in the coach yourselves, sirs?”

“Don’t start,” said Childermass with a dark look. “It has been a topic of contention today.”

The innkeeper nodded tactfully. “Shall I have dinner sent to your rooms?”

“We would be much obliged.” Childermass pulled another few coins out of his purse. “Come on, then,” he said to Segundus, and they made their way up the stairs one hobbled, painful step at a time.

By the time they reached the top, Segundus’s pain was so great that he was breathing heavily and making rather shameful whimpering noises. He leaned heavily into Childermass. He was quite certain that if he had to stand on his own, his stiff legs would give out entirely and he would crash to the ground. Fortunately, Childermass needed only one hand to turn the lock and then the doorknob.

Segundus’s room was pleasant enough, he supposed, but he was in no state to appreciate it. The walls were a disturbing sort of chartreuse, and the floor was covered by a thick carpet. His primary concern was the bed; specifically, how soon he might lie down upon it, and how exactly that feat might be achieved. Through a joint effort, he and Childermass managed to get his coat and boots off, by which time Segundus was quite sure he was about to collapse. He was considering simply standing over the bed and falling, much like a board improperly balanced on its end, when he found himself being gently lowered down. His back hit the mattress— blessedly free of lumps— and Childermass’s hands vanished. He made a quiet noise of protest.

Childermass did not seem to notice. He pulled a battered quill and a rather stained piece of parchment from an inner pocket of his coat and bent over the wooden desk that stood next to the bed.

“What are you doing?” Segundus asked. He was quite proud that he had stopped whimpering in pain, though his voice still sounded forced.

“Writing to Vinculus,” said Childermass absently. It must have been a short letter, for it took only a few seconds to compose. He muttered a spell, holding the paper so close that his lips brushed it as they moved, and the paper vanished. “So he will be able to find us.”

Segundus nodded and closed his eyes. Though he was lying down, the aching had barely eased. His back felt like one solid mass of pain, and his hips protested every time he tried to shift himself. “I do not think I will be able to sleep a wink tonight,” he confessed.

“I know a spell that might help,” said Childermass. “It will bring you deep and restful sleep.” He sighed and settled into the rickety wooden desk-chair. Though Segundus’s eyes were still closed, he could hear it creak. “You will be very stiff and sore for a few days. I do not know why you would not just ride in the coach. You will certainly have to tomorrow.”

Segundus nodded, chastised. “Would you cast the spell now, if it is not too much trouble?”

“You do not want any dinner?” Childermass sounded surprised.

“No,” said Segundus. “I do not think I could sit up to eat.”

“Do you want to sleep in your clothes?”

Segundus frowned slightly. “Not particularly, but I suppose I will have to, will I not?”

“You do not have to, no,” said Childermass quietly.

“Well, I cannot do it without help.”

“Indeed not.”

The weight of what Childermass was suggesting dropped onto Segundus like a waterfall that had been conjured above his chest. Heat rushed to his face, and his eyes flew open.

Childermass was leaning back in the chair with a studied air of indifference. He did not meet Segundus’s eyes or, indeed, even look at his face at all.

“I would not ask that of you!” Segundus exclaimed.

“You do not have to ask.” Childermass still refused to look at Segundus.

“Still, I— I simply could not allow it. You are not a servant, sir, you are my colleague and my fellow magician. It would not be right!”

Childermass slowly closed his eyes. “I see. I shall say no more on the matter. Shall I do the spell now?”

“Yes, please,” Segundus said. Childermass stood and pulled a periodical out of the pocket of his jacket.  _ How deep those pockets must be, _ Segundus thought to himself as Childermass began to speak the spell. He had a good voice for casting spells, Segundus decided. It was deep and steady and sounded like stones tumbling over one another at the bottom of a fast-moving river.

He could feel the magic begin to take effect. It was rather like feathers tickling his body all over, or perhaps leaves of grass brushing against his skin as he lay naked in a meadow. The last thing he saw before he succumbed entirely was Childermass’s face, lined with an inexpressible sadness. He tried to ask what had caused Childermass to look so sorrowful, but by the time the question formed in his mind, he was asleep.


	4. The Share of Honor

**March 1817**

Maggie had little time over the next few days to speak with Milly. The whole of Duffield Hall was thrown into disruption by little Florence’s repeated misuses of magic which she swore in a sweet, trembling voice were accidental. She seemed entirely unable to control its disastrous effects. Scarcely a day went by without her causing a portrait to begin reciting sonnets or transforming a shoe into a cheese wheel or turning the cat’s fur purple. Mr. and Mrs. Porter thought that perhaps a distraction was needed, and as Mary was quite old enough to start learning the pianoforte, little Florence might learn alongside her as well. Mrs. Porter despaired of tempting any but the poorest of music-masters to such an unfashionable country seat, but Milly was more than proficient with the pianoforte (as she had demonstrated during several entertaining evenings in the servants’ hall, to Maggie’s delight). Thus, Milly’s duties as a governess expanded, and the time she might spend with Maggie shrank.

Finally, perhaps four days after her meeting on Yew Tree Farm, Maggie was able to secure an evening alone with Milly. Young mistress Mary caught a fever and spread it to little Florence and Milly both, and lessons were cancelled until all three recovered. Maggie took a rare afternoon off to prepare a thin vegetable broth to take to her friend’s cottage.

Milly laughed when she saw the broth. “Really, Maggie, it is only a fever! I am quite capable of cooking for myself.”

“Well, yes, but now you do not have to. And don’t you want to hear about how the meeting went?”

Milly grinned. “Oh, certainly! Tell me about it while I heat this up.”

“You will stay right where you are,” Maggie said, pointing a threatening finger at her, “and I will heat it.”

Milly did not appear to object to this, for she settled down in her armchair happily enough. She had not bothered to dress properly for the day; she wore a dressing gown over her chemise, and her dark hair was pulled back in a simple braid. “Did you meet out in a field like the Johannites?”

The stove wasn’t lit, so Maggie built a small fire and carefully nursed it to strength. “We didn’t meet in a field. Mr. Ainsworth served us tea.” She almost laughed at the absurdity of discussing a revolution over tea, polite and calm as can be. “There was another man there. Mr. James Goddard. Have you heard of him?”

Milly shook her head. “I have been here for almost two years, yet I never seem to have the occasion to meet anyone from the village. What sort of man is he?”

“He seems a decent enough fellow. Cheeky, though. You’d like him.” Maggie determined the fire to be sufficiently built up. She fetched a kettle from the cabinet and filled it with half of the vegetable broth. She hesitated as she stirred. It would not be wise to reveal too much of their revolutionary talk. Johannites weren’t precisely outlawed, but it was a close thing. For all Milly’s radical beliefs about the equality of the sexes, Maggie still couldn’t be sure how much of a rebel Milly genuinely was.

Milly seemed to grow impatient with her silence. “Go on, then! What did you talk about?”

“The changes England has gone through in the past few years, and those that may come about soon.” That seemed like a safe, neutral answer.

“Such as?”

Perhaps  _ too _ safe. “Men are angry, all across the country,” Maggie said carefully. “Mr. Ainsworth said that the cities are in a state of turmoil. Lords are hoarding their wealth while craftsmen and factory-workers lose their jobs. And, of course, there is the Raven King to think about.”

“A topic that requires much consideration,” said Milly. “I have been reading about him, actually.”

Maggie looked at her in surprise, and she held up a thin volume that Maggie hadn’t noticed until now. The print on the cover was small, and Maggie had to squint slightly to read it (her eyesight was not as good as it had been in her youth). “A Child’s History of the Raven King?”

“Aye,” Milly said in a passably good imitation of Maggie’s accent. This had the desired effect— Maggie rolled her eyes and let out a small huff of laughter. “I have heard that Mr. Norrell disapproved of it heartily, which makes me more inclined to endorse it.”

“Are you a Strangeite, then?”

“Can one be a Strangeite— or a Norrellite, for that matter— without being a magician?”

Maggie shrugged. “I suppose it does not matter much, if it is the philosophy on magic you support. Are you thinking of becoming a magician?”

Milly looked a little sheepish at that. “I confess, I may have asked little Florence to teach me some of the spells she has done, but either she is a poor teacher or I am a poor student. I do not seem to have the talent for it.” She took a deep breath as though steeling herself for a difficult declaration. “In any case, Lord Portishead has convinced me that much of the information about the Raven King that has been spread about in the past couple years has been either misleading half-truths or outright falsehoods. John Uskglass seems to have very modern ideas on the equality of the sexes— did he not teach magic to Lady Catherine of Winchester himself?”

“He did,” said Maggie, still stirring.

“I recall your Mr. Hastings mentioned revolution in his letter to you.” Milly paused, her head tilted, and seemed to carefully consider her words. “That is— I do not think that is precisely what I want. I do not know. But your friends speak of change, and of the Raven King, and change is precisely what is needed for women at this time. Oh, I am not expressing my thoughts properly at all! It is this cursed fever; I cannot think straight.” She rubbed her temples with anxious fingers.

“I understand perfectly,” Maggie assured her. “In fact, you would be most welcome the next time we meet. I do not know when that will be, but soon, I hope.”

Milly looked up at that with a broad smile. “Oh, capital! Oh, I so look forward to it.”

Maggie tested the temperature of the broth; it was hot but not scalding.  _ Perfect. _ She ladeled some into a bowl, which she set on a tray and presented to Milly. Belatedly, she asked, “Do you want owt else to go with it?”

“No,” said Milly, her spoon poised halfway between the bowl and her mouth. “Only I feel wretched that I did not even think to make tea.”

“No matter,” Maggie said lightly. She filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove to boil. “It is no trouble.”

“You are a dear, but you should not have to wait on me on your afternoon off.” She adopted a guilty expression. “I fear I am an abominable hostess.”

“Nay, it’s better you didn’t. You are ill; you oughtn’t strain yourself.”

Milly, who hadn’t made a move to rise from her armchair throughout the conversation, capitulated easily enough. “Very well. Now, while we are on the topic of you being far too kind to me, would you possibly be willing to read to me? My eyes ache from reading all day, and I would like to hear your thoughts on Lord Portishead’s accounts.”

“Certainly.” Maggie accepted the slim, battered volume from Milly and sank into an armchair opposite her. Fortunately, Milly had marked the page where she left off. Maggie opened the book and began to read.

\---

The next day, Maggie was sent down to the village to purchase stationary, as little Florence had somehow caused all the stationary to fold itself into delicate paper butterflies that floated about the halls and resisted all attempts at capture. Mrs. Hughes wanted Maggie to stay and help try to fetch the things down from the ceilings, but Mrs. Porter insisted that she had many important letters to write. An acquaintance of hers from Bath had mentioned something about a magic school when they last met several years ago, and Mrs. Porter was slowly beginning to realize that perhaps distractions were not enough to prevent her daughter’s mischief. So Maggie was assigned the task of fetching stationary and setting up a small writing-desk out in the garden, where hopefully Florence’s influence would not cause the papers to fly away.

Maggie set out on this task quite happily, as she did not mind the chance to stretch her legs and go for a walk. She hung up her apron, buttoned her coat over her maid’s uniform, and pinned a hat over her blonde hair. Then she was off, practically skipping across the lawn out of joy from being granted a reprieve from scrubbing. She entertained a few hopes of running into Hastings by chance but didn’t consider it a serious possibility. No doubt he was busy at work.

Once in the village, Maggie took time to enjoy her rare mid-morning outing. She strolled up and down the streets, peering in shop windows and amusing herself by imagining herself in this elegant dress or that fashionable hat. She fancied she would look ridiculous— fashion was a game for young people with money, not housemaids approaching middle age. Though perhaps in a better world, she might be allowed to participate. The churchbells rang half-past ten, and she was reminded of her mission.

While poking around the general store for a large memorandum-book (she had decided that a memorandum-book would be more appropriate than loose-leaf stationary, as it was much less likely to fold itself into the shape of a butterfly), Maggie came face-to-face with a man she did not expect to see: Mr. James Goddard, standing next to a short woman with dark hair and a glint of mischief in her eyes.

He smiled his wide smile at her. “Miss le Roy,” he said with a small bow. “Please allow me to introduce my wife, Mrs. Lavinia Goddard. My dear, Miss le Roy is the woman I was telling you about; Hastings’s friend, you know.” He lowered his voice. “She is one of the happy few.”

Mrs. Goddard raised an eyebrow. “Your little band of brothers, you say?”

“Brothers and sisters now, I imagine,” said Goddard, winking at Maggie.

“Are you a believer in the cause, then?” Maggie asked.

Mrs. Goddard eyed Maggie, ignoring her husband (“The  _ cause! _ Why, she sounds just like Ainsworth!”). When she spoke, it was carefully, as though any stray word might cause judgement to fall upon her. “I am not sure. My husband’s friends are very eloquent men. But it seems to me they care little for the danger, either to themselves or to England, that might be unleashed should they pursue their goals.”

“You mistake us, madam,” said Goddard. “It is not that we are careless for danger. Rather, there are more important things that are worth the danger.” He glanced around uneasily. “But this is not a proper topic for the happy meeting of new acquaintances. Let us save it for our next tea-time.”

Maggie and Mrs. Goddard obligingly shifted to safer topics— the weather, and Mrs. Goddard’s garden, and their families. Maggie did not say much on that front, but it turned out she didn’t have to, for Mrs. Goddard was delighted when she heard that Maggie’s brother previously worked for a magician. “I myself have an interest in magic,” she said. “Purely theoretical— I haven’t gotten the nerve to try a spell— what if it all went horribly wrong? But the theory of it is just enchanting, don’t you think?”

A poor choice of words, Maggie reflected, given the rumors circulating about Lady Pole’s madness and recovery, but apt. “It is a fascinating topic, to be sure. But then, my brother does not write of it nearly as much as I should like him to, so I fear I am ill-informed on the theory.” The churchbells struck eleven, then, and Maggie jumped as though she had been pricked with a needle. “Oh! I lost track of time. Forgive me, but I must return to work,” she said as she hurriedly made her purchase.

“I ought to go as well,” said Mrs. Goddard. “The garden needs seeing to. And now that you—” she pointed a threatening finger at her husband “—have no excuse not to help me, I’ll thank you not to shirk pulling the weeds this afternoon.”

“Of course, my dear,” Goddard said meekly.

The three made their goodbyes and promised to meet again soon, and Maggie hurried back to the hall with much less enthusiasm than when she had set out. Mrs. Hughes tutted at her for her choice of purchase, but refrained from scolding her when Maggie explained her reasoning.

“I suppose it will do,” Mrs. Hughes said, and Maggie handed over the memorandum-book, feeling rather piqued. Her irritation evaporated, however, when Mrs. Hughes passed her a letter. “This arrived while you were out.”

One glance at the writing on the envelope was all it took to send Maggie’s heart fluttering— not only because of the man who had written it, but because of what she expected to find within. “Thank you,” she said in a passable imitation of calmness. “I ought to see to the bedding now.” Mrs. Hughes nodded and returned to her ledgers, and Maggie made her way out of the housekeeper’s sitting room and to her own small bedchamber as fast as she could without drawing attention to herself.

Once she was safely ensconced in her room with no fear of prying eyes, Maggie broke the wax seal and opened the letter from Mr. Hastings with trembling fingers. It was just as she expected— half a page of pleasant civilities, another half detailing his daughters’ exploits, and a hastily-scrawled invitation for her and Milly to meet him, Goddard, and Ainsworth for tea at Yew Tree Farm the following day. No hour was named, nor was one necessary; it was understood that circumstances required the meeting to be held at night. Maggie and Milly would arrive whenever they were able after their work was done.

Maggie penned a quick note accepting the invitation on behalf of herself and making her excuses for Milly, who was still ill and confined to her cottage, and tied a string around her finger to remind herself not to miss the afternoon post. After that important business was taken care of, Maggie supposed she ought to get to work— she really did need to see to the bedding.

\---

Milly, of course, wouldn’t hear of missing the meeting due to such a trivial thing as illness. “I will cover my head and wear a shawl, and if it makes you feel better, I shall bring heated bricks to lay at my feet. But I will not,” she insisted, “miss the opportunity to speak with like-minded people who want to change England for the better!”

“There will be more opportunities,” Maggie said. “It is not an instantaneous process.” But eventually she capitulated to Milly’s determination, and when the hour arrived, they set off across Duffield beneath a clear, starry sky. 

Despite the mild weather, Milly was indeed wearing a shawl beneath her warm hooded cloak. Maggie had not pressed her on the heated bricks, however, so she had not bothered with them. They wore dark dresses, to better blend in with the night, and they slipped through the streets like creeping shadows. Milly stumbled two or three times along the lane that led to the farmhouse, and Maggie insisted on linking their arms together so she would not fall.

An unfamiliar woman in a plain dress with a dirty hem answered Maggie’s knock.

“Mrs. Ainsworth?” Maggie ventured.

The woman nodded.

“We’re here for tea,” said Maggie.

Mrs. Ainsworth looked them up and down and sighed, but stood aside so they might enter. She poked her head out the door and glanced around the yard as though looking for spies. “The men are in the kitchen,” she said, closing the door firmly. “I’d ask you to talk some sense into them, but seeing as you’re here at this hour, I don’t expect it to be a terribly productive conversation.”

Maggie absurdly felt as though she should apologize, but for what, she had no idea. She led Milly to the kitchen, where tea was once again laid out before the three men. The situation in the kitchen was tense. Mrs. Ainsworth bustled around the periphery, picking up dishes and sweeping up crumbs and shooting looks of disapproval at the company every few moments. Ainsworth seemed to be acutely aware of his wife’s silent reproaches, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat every time she glanced their way.

“Sirs,” Maggie said in a vain attempt to ease the strained atmosphere, “allow me to introduce my friend, Miss Milly Greene.”

Milly curtseyed, and Goddard (with a wink at Maggie) reached out to shake her hand. She handled it more gracefully than Maggie did, perhaps due to Maggie’s forewarning about mischief. Maggie poured them both a cup of tea, and they settled into chairs across the table from the men.

“I’ll say goodnight then,” said Mrs. Ainsworth, rather too loudly for the modest size of the kitchen.

“Sarah, dear—” Ainsworth began, but Mrs. Ainsworth disappeared from the doorway, and the sound of a door being shut quite firmly echoed through the kitchen a moment later. Ainsworth sighed. “I apologize for my wife’s behavior. She thinks this is a foolish venture.”

“She’s not wrong,” Goddard said. Maggie looked to him in surprise, and she was not the only one at the table with a shocked expression. “What? It is foolish, and dangerous besides. Revolution? On English soil? Sirs— and ladies— that’s a tall order, an’ no mistake.”

“Do you have any doubt in our cause?” Ainsworth asked.

“Oh! Certainly not. The cause is just and right. I am with you all the way, sirs.” Goddard paused and ran a hand through his hair. “But it won’t do us any good to pretend that it isn’t a rash and reckless scheme.”

Throughout all this, Hastings’s eyes scarcely left Milly’s face. Maggie might have been jealous, but he did not gaze at her as though enchanted by her beauty; rather, he studied her as though trying to remember the name of a long-forgotten acquaintance. “Miss Greene, was it?”

Milly nodded. “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Hastings. I have heard so much about you from our dear friend Maggie.”

“You wouldn’t be related to the Greenes of Leicestershire, then?”

“The Greenes of Leicestershire?” Ainsworth interrupted. “Who in Heaven are they?”

“You ought to know who they are, Ainsworth,” said Hastings without taking his eyes off Milly’s face, “as Lord Greene, Baron Segrave, of Leicestershire, owns the mill from which you were fired.”

Milly shrugged, though Maggie could see that her shoulders were tense. “I may be distantly related, perhaps four or five generations ago. Are you accusing me of being a closer relation? If I were the niece or the daughter of a baron, I shouldn’t think I would be a governess in Duffield.”

Hastings relaxed fractionally. “You’ve got a London accent.”

“Do you really think a great family would hire a governess with any other accent? I may have been raised middle class, but I certainly mayn’t sound like it if I want a job.” And indeed, as Milly spoke, her accent softened and took on some of the muddy consonants of the Midlands country speech Maggie had grown so used to hearing.

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Honestly. Greene is a common enough name, I’d wager. Mr. Hastings, you’d do as well asking after the origins of my name.”

Hastings had the grace to look abashed. “Don’t hurt to be cautious.”

“If you’re quite finished interrogating me,” Milly said drily, “I have a few things I would like to say.”

Hastings flicked his gaze to Ainsworth, who gave a tiny nod.

Milly seemed to track the reaction, and she smiled into her tea before she spoke. “I am here for two reasons: because I believe in the equality of the sexes, and because I am recently a follower of His Grace, the Raven King.” Maggie blushed for her friend at the address but said nothing. “I am not a northerner like my dear friend Maggie, but everything I read about him suggests that if any king were to grant us equality, it would be he.”

“How frustrating it is that we must apply to a man for equality,” said Maggie.

Milly set her tea down in his saucer with rather too much force. “Precisely!”

“We are all here for different reasons,” Hastings said, gesturing to the people that sat around the table. “Ainsworth and Goddard lost their jobs and were replaced by machines, like so many other craftsmen in every corner of this country. As for myself, I have no great love for the Raven King, nor any great hate. What we all share, what unifies us, is a desire to change England for the better.”

“Do you consider yourselves Johannites, then?” asked Milly.

“We do,” Hastings said.

Goddard nodded his agreement. “Though for Hastings and myself, the term is less a statement of our regard for the Raven King and more of a pragmatic allyship.  _ If a house be divided against itself, _ and all that.”

Milly took a sip of her tea. “Maggie informed me that you do not intend— that is to say, Johannites are known for burning factories and mills and such, but Maggie seemed to imply that such actions are not your intention?”

“Not just yet,” said Ainsworth. “Ideally, not ever. But we must make ourselves heard, and if that is the only way the lords will hear us, then so be it.”

“I believe that is wise. Being a Johannite is a dangerous business these days. It is one thing to talk of change, but quite another to commit arson. You could end up executed for treason.”

“Miss Greene,” Ainsworth said with a frown, “please do not misunderstand our intentions here. We do not wish only to talk of change. We wish to enact it.”

Milly raised an eyebrow. “And how will you do that?”

“Well.” Hastings smiled. “I’ll allow that it does begin with talk, much as we are doing right now. We talk to people and hear their stories. Then we talk to them about what changes they’d like to see. For example, you want to see equality for women. These gentlemen and I want protections for craftsmen who might lose their jobs to machines. Miss le Roy, you’ve been very quiet. What would you like to see in a changed England?”

Maggie had been following the conversation with a quiet intensity like she might watch a duel, or more likely a fistfight, and the question pulled her up short. “I would be remiss if I didn’t say that I want to see the Raven King on the throne of Northern England.”

Hastings made a mocking half-bow. “Spoken like a true Yorkshirewoman. That cannot be all, though.”

“No, it is not all.” Maggie paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. “I want a future where Milly and I do not work ourselves to the bone every day in service of another family’s comfort, where women have the same employment opportunities as men. I am grateful for my job, of course—”

“No, none of that,” Goddard interrupted. “Don’t start with this nonsense of gratitude. The family is not doing you a favor by employing you.”

_ No, but the housekeeper did my brother a favor when she agreed to take me on. _ Maggie didn’t voice her thoughts. Instead, she considered— what kind of a future  _ did _ she want, aside from the obvious and nebulous  _ better? _ She found it a surprisingly difficult question to answer. “I want a future where children don’t have to pick pockets just to survive,” she began haltingly, “and where mothers don’t have to— to sell themselves to get enough money to pay the landlord for another week, and where their daughters aren’t threatened with the same if they don’t steal enough.” She was aware that she was revealing rather more about herself than she had really intended to, but now that she had started, she did not wish to stop. “I want it so that every person has a home, and a sure job, and the ability to provide for their families, so that no child is forced to steal and no man loses his job so lords may line their pockets and the rest of us starve!”

A stunned silence met her words. Maggie did not realize that her hands were shaking, rattling her teacup in its saucer, until Milly reached out a hand and laid it on her wrist. “Well said,” she murmured.

“Hear, hear,” said Hastings. “So you see, Miss Greene, it begins with talking, and talking turns to anger. We are few now, but there are many angry men in England. We just need to ensure their anger remains directed at the people above them, not each other. And then, when every man speaks with one voice, we will not be ignored any more.”

“You really do want a revolution,” Milly said, her eyes wide.

“A revolution may be brewing regardless of our involvement,” said Ainsworth quietly. “The cities are in a turmoil now. Men are losing their jobs by the thousands, to say nothing of the Raven King. There’s some in London who believe he may try to reclaim his northern throne, and there are many in the north who hope he does.” Here he inclined his head to Maggie. “The winds of change are howling. Whether they will drive us to an all-out revolution, I cannot say. The important thing is, when the winds die down, they leave behind a more just and equitable England.”

“Powerful words,” said Milly. “Very well. You have convinced me. I shall support your cause to the extent you support mine.”

“You and Miss le Roy both are easily persuaded,” Hastings said.

Milly laughed at that. “Or perhaps we already agreed with the sentiments you have expressed, and we only wanted to hear you say them!”

Hastings raised an eyebrow at Maggie.

“Miss Greene has the right of it,” she said. “I agreed with you from the start. All you had to persuade me of was your own intentions, which you have all done admirably, sirs.”

Goddard raised his teacup. “Let us have a toast to a brighter future!”

“I think we can do better than a toast with tea, man,” Ainsworth said. He stood and collected an armful of beer bottles from a cabinet near the stove, then passed them around the group. “To the Raven King, and to a better England!”

The company echoed the toast all around the table and clinked the necks of their bottles together. Maggie took a long pull, savoring the taste— dark and bitter, with a strong malt scent. She gave a quiet hum of approval and took another sip. She glanced over at Milly, only to see the faintest expression of displeasure.

“Is it not to your taste?” Maggie asked under her breath.

Milly shook her head minutely and gave the shadow of a shrug. “I never developed a taste for beer. It is too bitter for me.”

“You drink your coffee black, yet this is too bitter?” said Maggie, amused. Milly just gave another small shrug, and Maggie accepted it as another of her friend’s idiosyncrasies. “Well, I’ll have it if you don’t want it.”

Milly nudged it closer to her. “I did not want to be rude and refuse a toast.”

“It’s quite alright. I like it enough that I would not mind drinking two.”

Conversation after that lapsed into topics more mundane than the looming possibility of revolution. Milly asked after Hastings’s daughters and appeared delighted by their antics. In turn, she shared stories of the young mistresses of Duffield Hall, who were similar in age but somewhat less mischievous. She wisely refrained from mentioning any of Florence’s magical mishaps, as the Porters had made it quite clear they did not want rumors circulating. Ainsworth pulled Hastings into a conversation about the farm and the various chores they would have to do in order to prepare for the growing season. Maggie did not find this conversation particularly interesting, as she had no care for farming, but Milly appeared fascinated and was following the conversation intently.

Goddard caught Maggie’s eye. “I believe yesterday you said your brother is a magician?”

“He works for a magician,” Maggie corrected him. “Rather, he did previously. I do not know his situation now.”

“I have heard some rumors that there may be a school for magicians opening in Yorkshire soon.”

“I have heard the same.” Maggie suspected she knew where this line of questioning might lead. “If you like, I can write to my brother to ask if he can verify those rumors.”

A relieved smile spread across Goddard’s face. “Oh, would you? It seemed impertinent to ask, but my wife has a great love for magic, and it’s her dearest wish that she might learn it.”

“I shall write to him tomorrow to inform him of your wife’s interest.”

“I am much obliged to you, Miss le Roy.” Goddard raised his beer for a toast. “To magic!”

“To magic,” Maggie echoed.

The company (with the exception of Milly) were all rather red-cheeked by then, so it was no surprise when Goddard stood a few minutes later and declared that he ought to head home. Hastings agreed, as did the women, and there was a general carfuffle as gloves were drawn on and overcoats were buttoned and tied. They made their goodbyes with vague promises of meeting again as soon as could be arranged, and Maggie thought that Ainsworth looked rather relieved as he saw them to the door. She couldn’t blame him— it was somewhat later than she had originally planned to stay out.

Hastings offered her his arm as they made their way through the yard, and she took it happily. “A successful tea-time, I should think,” Maggie said.

She could barely see his smile in the darkness of the lane, illuminated only by starlight, but she heard it in his words. “Aye, tea was certainly consumed, and more besides.”

“Why, Hastings, are you teasing me?”

“I might be. What of it?”

Maggie couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I ought to tell you to leave off, as I am a spinster and thus beyond the age of teasing, but I suspect that will have little effect.”

“None at all, Miss le Roy. I will stop, but only because I cannot see you blush in this darkness, and I wish to save all my teasing for a time when I may observe its effects.”

As he surely intended, Maggie felt her cheeks heat. “You say you will stop, and yet you continue! I hardly know what to believe.”

“Very well, very well,” Hastings said, his voice tinged with laughter. “I shall stop now, if only to save myself the embarrassment of being overheard by our friends.”

They spoke no more as they made their way through the streets of Duffield to Hastings’s neat little apartment near the church. He bowed over Maggie’s hand as they said their goodbyes as though he were a gentleman and she were a great lady, which made her laugh once again. Goddard left the group then as well, as he would be heading south and the women would be heading north, so Maggie linked her arm with Milly as they set off.

“Well, I am very glad that Mr. Hastings invited me,” Milly said. “The possibility of change is thrilling, is it not?”

“Certainly!” said Maggie. “It’s a daunting prospect— we are so few now, but surely our numbers will grow. Perhaps we may join forces with the labor unions, though they are not so strong in the Midlands as in London.”

“The labor unions!” Milly repeated. “But they are all socialists.”

Maggie glanced at her sidelong, but she could make out little of Milly’s expression in the darkness. “Do you have some quarrel with socialism?”

“I must say I am ill-informed on the topic. I heard Mr. Porter mention it once or twice and say some rather unkind things about socialists.”

“I suspect Mr. Porter may be somewhat biased,” Maggie said drily. “No matter. An hour-long conversation with Mr. Hastings on the topic is sure to inform you.”

“He seems to be a very politically-minded man.”

“Aye, and if I have to sit through his lectures, then you do too!” Maggie laughed. “We shall suffer together.”

They walked in silence for a moment, and the only noises were their footsteps and the quiet hum of insects.

“Do you truly want the Raven King to be restored to his throne?” Milly asked. “Even though it may take a revolution to see him there?”

Maggie considered for a moment. “I am a Yorkshirewoman. Loyalty to John Uskglass is part of who I am. He is in my mind and my heart at all times. Nothing would make me happier than seeing my King home on his throne once more.” She paused. “And you? You say that you are now his follower. How far does your loyalty go?”

“How far indeed,” Milly murmured. “I suppose, if our new friends have their way, we will find out. I must say, I rather hope not.” She glanced at Maggie. “Forgive me, but I must speak my mind. Revolutions are a bloody business, and I cannot in good faith condemn English men and women for the sake of my principles.”

Maggie just shook her head. It wasn’t a proper answer, but upon reflection, she realized that her answer hadn’t been straightforward either. Fair was fair, she supposed.

By that time they were very nearly at the hall. Milly made her goodbyes and set off in the direction of her cottage, and Maggie proceeded to the hall on her own. She crept through the darkened hallways as quietly as she could. Fortunately, many late evenings with Milly had informed her of where the floor would creak and where it was safe to step.

Maggie prepared for bed in near-total darkness; the meager light of the stars was blocked by a heavy curtain, and she daredn’t light a candle. She hoped sleep would come quickly, but she lay awake for almost an hour, scolding herself for her behavior at Yew Tree Farm. She had revealed too much, she knew. She could never again hint at coming from a disreputable background., or the facade of respectability she had so carefully constructed would come tumbling down and she would lose everything— her livelihood, her friendship with Milly, even her dear Mr. Hastings.

Fretting would do no good, she told herself firmly as she stared up into the darkness above her bed. She had spoken out of turn, and she couldn't take that back, but she could attribute it to the passion of the moment and moderate her words in the future. Thus resolved, she shut her eyes. She turned her thoughts with great determination to a lullaby she vaguely remembered her brother singing to her when she was but a child and he was scarcely older.

_ For always and for always _

_ I pray remember me _

_ Upon the moors, beneath the stars _

_ With the King’s wild company. _

The ancient, familiar words soothed her, and she fell asleep not long after.


	5. The Sheltering Sky

**May 1817**

Childermass was not in the room when Segundus awoke the next morning; he could tell before he even opened his eyes. He idly wondered where Childermass might have gone off to and why, exactly, he was so convinced that the man ought to be present. He tried to sit up, and all at once, the events of the previous day, momentarily forgotten in the haze that follows sleep (magically-induced or otherwise) came rushing back to his mind. He let out a pained groan as his back seized, and he collapsed back against the pillows. He lay there panting for some moments before he could gather the strength to roll onto his side and push himself into a sitting position. His boots were thankfully nearby, and he slid his feet into them without too much trouble, but he couldn’t bend over far enough to lace them up properly.

Standing up straight was an ordeal, but Segundus managed it with the help of the chair, the desk, the wall, and, at several points, the curtains. He consoled himself with the fact that at least his legs could bear his own weight and he would not have to be half-carried and half-dragged back down through the inn. He had no need to dress, so he made his way over to the bureau where a basin of water stood and splashed his face. He ran his fingers through his dark hair, trying to comb it into a semblance of an orderly style, though he had left his mousse with the coach. He frowned at his reflection in the spotty mirror above the bureau. It would have to do. Fortunately, he would be able to keep it covered with a hat for much of the day.

A few bread rolls, a wedge of cheese, and a small pot of jam sat on a plate on the desk. Segundus was not sure if this was the remains of his uneaten dinner last night or if someone had come in to lay breakfast on the desk, should he want it. He did not like the thought of a maid or a footman coming into his room while he was in a magically-induced slumber. Not that he did not trust the maids and the footmen! He was sure they were decent, respectable young women and men. But it was the  _ vulnerability  _ of the thing. Perhaps Childermass had been the one to lay it, though. After all, Childermass was the one with the key. Segundus was not nearly as alarmed by the thought of Childermass laying out breakfast while he slept. In fact, the thought was rather enticing. It made Segundus feel warm in a sort of quiet, shivery way.

Segundus did not have long to ponder why Childermass might induce such feelings in him. The door unlocked and opened, and the man himself stepped quietly into the room as though he expected its occupant to be asleep. “You are standing,” he said, astonished.

“I am,” said Segundus. “It was no easy feat.” He took stock of his visitor. Childermass’s clothes— the same ones he wore yesterday— had some new patches of dirt that had not been present previously. He was not wearing a hat, and he hadn’t yet tied his hair back. It hung around his face like sheets of rain. There was something yellow caught in it. Segundus frowned and reached for the offending item. “Straw?” he asked.

“Hay,” said Childermass. He was watching Segundus with a wary look in his eye, as though he thought he might need to spring forward at any second to save him from collapsing. Normally, Segundus might have been offended that Childermass thought him to have such a weak constitution, but the events of the previous evening demonstrated that such a service might be necessary after all.

“Why do you have hay in your hair?” Segundus asked. He looked between the stalk of hay in his hand and Childermass’s more-rumpled-than-usual appearance. “You did not—”

“I was seeing to the horses,” said Childermass quickly.

“You slept in the stable!” accused Segundus.

“I had to make sure Bradshaw’s horse was alright. He’s getting it re-shoed now.” There was an edge of desperation in Childermass’s voice.

“Yes, alright, but you  _ slept _ in the  _ stable. _ ” Childermass opened his mouth, but Segundus didn’t give him the chance to protest. “Do not deny it! Why in Heaven, Hell, and the lands beyond would you do such a thing?”

Childermass was beginning to get a mulish look about him. “You did not seem to want my company last night.”

“I did not want you to act as my servant, sir,” Segundus said. “That does not mean I wanted to send you from the room that you yourself paid for. That hardly seems fair!”

“Well, the thing is done now, so let us not make a fuss about it,” said Childermass. He crossed his arms. “Do you want your breakfast?”

Segundus sighed. “I will eat it on the road, whenever Bradshaw gets back.”

“Very well.”

They looked at each other for a moment.

“What shall you do with Vinculus?” Segundus asked to fill the uncomfortable silence.

Childermass looked surprised. “I was not aware I ought to do anything with him.”

“Surely you will not be keeping him from being studied while we investigate the Johannites,” said Segundus. It dawned on him then that they were still stood rather awkwardly near the door to his room. “Might we sit, if you have no other pressing matters?”

Childermass’s mouth quirked into a tiny smile. “And if I do?”

“Then I will sit,” Segundus said with a touch of annoyance. “And you may carry on about your business.”

“I have no other business,” Childermass said after a brief pause. “Would you like to sit here or in the public house below?”

Segundus considered. The room was pleasant enough (if one could ignore the wallpaper) but it felt stifling without a window, and he would rather get the pain of going downstairs over with. “Downstairs, I think,” he decided. “These walls are making me ill.”

Childermass glanced at the walls, still smirking. “You have only had to look at them for ten minutes altogether.”

“And that has been quite enough for me,” Segundus said.

The journey down the stairs was less painful than the one going up it had been. Segundus wasn’t sure if it was because his muscles had relaxed somewhat— it certainly did not feel like that was the case— or if the motions were simply easier for his stiff and sore legs to complete. He did not have to lean so heavily on Childermass, but he did require the use of the banister.

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” he said as Childermass deposited him in a low, comfortable armchair near the roaring fire downstairs.

Childermass let out a soft huff of laughter. “You do not weigh so much. I have carried far heavier burdens for Mr. Norrell. I do not mean to say that you are a burden, sir,” he said as Segundus opened his mouth to apologize once more. “Only that it is no inconvenience.” He sank down into the armchair opposite Segundus and propped his feet up on the low wooden table that separated them. A passing footman frowned, but Childermass didn’t seem to notice. “You asked what I intend to do with Vinculus,” he said slowly. “I had not given it much thought.”

“Is there a magical society in Duffield?” Segundus asked.

“There is not,” said Childermass. “The nearest one is in Derby, I believe, and I would not want to be so far from him.” He grimaced. “He is under my care, and he makes that difficult enough as it is.”

“We might invite some of the Derby Society, or whatever they’re called, to examine him in Duffield. I would not want to stifle magical scholarship.”

“No one could accuse you of wanting to stifle magical scholarship,” Childermass said with a small smile. It was not the one he had given Segundus before; it was warmer, somewhere between teasing and fond. It was not an expression that Segundus had often seen him make, and he found that he wanted to see more of it in the future. “I shall consider it.”

Bradshaw appeared through the inn’s front door. “Ah, there you are, sirs. I’ve got me ‘orse shoed again.”

“Right,” said Childermass. “I will go fetch your things, Mr. Segundus.”

“You are not a servant,” Segundus insisted.

“As you keep telling me, but please, allow your sense of propriety to make room for convenience.” Childermass raised one heavy eyebrow. “Unless you would rather walk up the stairs again?”

“No,” said Segundus. He leaned back in his armchair. “I suppose I would not.”

“There you have it.” Childermass stood. “Can you make it to the coach on your own?”

Segundus stood with some difficulty and made his way to the coach waiting outside. He had to be helped into the coach, but he supposed that most people did (after all, that was why one’s footman often travelled with one’s coach, was it not?) so it was no great blow to his pride.

Vinculus, once again, sat in the footman’s seat by Bradshaw, so Segundus was quite alone inside. He wasn’t sure if this state of affairs was better or worse than having Vinculus for company. At least he did not feel quite as trapped as he had on the first day of the journey, he mused. He still would have preferred to be out under the open sky, riding next to Childermass and speaking, perhaps, of magical matters, but being alone in the coach was an acceptable state of affairs for the time being.

Yorkshire, clad in bright greens and yellows, unwound itself beneath the grey ribbon of the road, and the sky lay heavy above. There was something to the moors that he didn’t remember being present further south in England. The land seemed more alive; it was one of the things that had drawn him to Yorkshire in the first place. It was an area full of wildness and wonder, of mystery and magic. There was meaning here, and substantiality, and— above all— a history that was quite unique. People had traditions that went back to the time of the Raven King, or even before. They had taken to the return of magic with great aplomb. Much more so than in the Southern counties, Segundus had heard, where some still debated if this version of the Raven King was, in fact, the genuine article or merely another pretender.

Childermass, Segundus mused, was as wild as the heather. He had a remoteness about him that spoke of ancient magics lost to the ravages of time. He reminded Segundus of fairy-roads, of King’s Roads, of going on a journey across the moor and finding oneself in an entirely unexpected location. It wasn’t all down to magic, though. Segundus certainly didn’t think such things of Tom Levy, for example, or Miss Redruth, or Mr. Thorne. There was something about Childermass that was particularly alluring, like standing at the edge of a dark and shadowed forest. He wanted to wander beneath its branches and see what he might find.

Between these thoughts, the books he had taken with him, and the magical periodicals that he had not yet had the chance (or the focus) to read, Segundus passed an almost-pleasant morning alone in Bradshaw’s coach. When they stopped at a public house in Chesterfield for luncheon, he was surprised that time had passed so quickly.

“We have made good progress,” Childermass said over their light luncheon of bread and cold meats.

“Will we make it to Duffield this evening?” asked Segundus.

Childermass took a swig of his ale. “I do not believe so, no,” he said. “Not unless we push the horses quite hard.” Bradshaw took a breath, but Childermass continued before he could protest. “Which is not something I am inclined to do.”

“Very good, sir,” Bradshaw said.

Segundus supposed that the afternoon might pass as quickly as the morning, but he was quickly proven wrong. The feeling of being trapped within the coach returned, and he longed to be out under the sky that lay low above the land. He tried to distract himself with study and periodicals and even a few attempts at a tricky spell to call lost memories to one’s mind. Still, no matter how hard he tried to be productive, his attention wandered every few minutes. It was a frustrating sensation. He  _ wanted _ to study, to turn his thoughts to scholarly topics, but every time he tried, it was as though his mind went wandering down a fairy-path and ended up in an entirely unexpected location. By the time they stopped in the mid-afternoon to feed and water the horses, Segundus had grown quite agitated.

“You were trying to do magic,” Childermass said as Brewer munched noisily from his feed-bag.

“Oh, yes, I was,” said Segundus. He adjusted his hat. “I hope I was not disturbing you. That sort of thing affects you even more than it does me— I did not even think. Please forgive me.”

“No disturbance at all.” Childermass paused. “Were you successful?”

“Alas, no. I cannot seem to get the shape of it quite right.” Segundus smiled as best as he could. “I was never a very good theoretical magician, let alone a practical one.”

Childermass sighed. “You already know what I think of your abilities,” he said quietly. “I shall not repeat myself.”

Segundus felt heat rise to his face. “Surely you didn’t mean… Surely you were just flattering me.”

Childermass looked at him for a long moment. “Have you ever known me to be a flatterer, sir?”

“No, I suppose not,” said Segundus.

They stood for a moment in near-silence, listening to Brewer chewing and Bradshaw’s and Segundus’s horses slurping noisily from the nearby brook. The sky promised rain later that evening, and Segundus didn’t suppose they would be spared a second time.

“We ought to get on,” Bradshaw called. “That is, if you still plan on stopping in Ambergate for the evening.”

“Aye,” Childermass said. He moved to help Bradshaw with the horses, but Segundus, acting entirely on impulse, reached out to grab his elbow.

Segundus was so surprised by his own reflex (he would never have been so bold if he had thought it through) that whatever he was going to say flew right out of his mind. “Sit with me,” he said instead. “In the coach.”

Childermass looked at him in surprise. “Why?”

In truth, Segundus could not explain why, even to himself. It was not only that he wanted a travelling companion— he wanted Childermass, specifically. He almost lost his nerve when he thought of  _ how much _ he had wanted Childermass just a few days ago.  _ This has nothing to do with that sort of thing, though! _ he protested.  _ This is irreproachable. We are both magicians and scholars. _ “I thought we could talk.”

“Why?” Childermass said again.

“You were happy enough to talk yesterday,” said Segundus. He allowed a hint of irritation to creep into his voice. “Have I done something since then to offend you?”

“I do not believe you have ever caused anyone more than a momentary offense,” Childermass said. He paused, his face thoughtful. “I thought I might have offended you with my talk about the Greeks and the Romans yesterday.”

“The Greeks and the Romans?” Segundus repeated. “What have they got to do with anything? Why should that offend me?”

Childermass let out a peal of laughter. “Ah, sir,” he said between chuckles. “I keep forgetting.”

“Forgetting what?” asked Segundus, bemused.

“Never mind.” Childermass smiled at him, though there was an undercurrent of sadness despite his laughter the previous moment. Segundus thought there might be something significant to that sadness, but he couldn’t think what. “Yes, I will sit with you. Just let me tie Brewer to the coach.”

Segundus settled himself in the coach with Bradshaw’s help. It was a great relief to sit down, though he hadn’t been standing for very long. It was strange, he thought to himself as he pushed aside his books to make room for Childermass. When he had been sitting all day, he wanted nothing more than to stretch his legs and walk about, but once he had done that, his legs hurt so badly that he was obliged to sit some more. Childermass joined him before too long, though he raised an eyebrow at the pile of books that took up most of Segundus’s seat.

“You did not pack light,” he said.

“Was I supposed to?” asked Segundus. “You did not say.”

“Peace, sir.” Childermass settled himself on the seat opposite Segundus and rapped his knuckles against the roof of the coach. “It was not a requirement.”

The coach trundled into motion, and for a moment, they just looked at each other.

“Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about?” Childermass asked.

“Oh! I suppose so,” said Segundus. He must have had something in mind when he made the suggestion, but now that Childermass was actually in front of him, he couldn’t remember. “It is very odd to see you inside a coach.”

“I often rode with Mr. Norrell,” Childermass said with a crooked smile. “Is that what you had in mind to discuss?”

“No, I would rather not speak of that horrid man at all.”

“Well, then.”

A tiny bit of sadness clung to the edges of Childermass’s eyes, the curve of his lips. Segundus suddenly had the impulse to reach out and brush it away, to feel Childermass smile beneath his fingers, to touch Childermass’s face while he laughed. He wanted to feel how happiness changed Childermass’s weathered features. This need— for it was not a want, but a need he was sure he couldn’t do without, now he had thought of it— was so foreign to him that he didn’t know what to do with himself. He was familiar with more carnal desires (shame surged within him) but he was certain that he had never felt anything quite like what he felt for Childermass in that moment.

“Tell me more about the Johannites,” he said. His voice sounded thin and high to his ears. “I am not as familiar with the situation as I ought to be.”

“Right.” Childermass settled back in his seat and took his hat off. His hair was mussed from the wind, and Segundus had to restrain himself from running his fingers through it to put it back in order. “They are craftsmen, as you know, who have been put out of work by new machinery.”

“And you intend to convince them to quit their mission?”

“I am not quite sure what I intend to convince them of,” Childermass said with a sigh. “And I suspect I won’t know until I’ve spoken with their leaders, such as they are.”

Segundus was surprised. He didn’t think he had ever heard Childermass express doubt in such a way. He always seemed as unwavering as stone and as certain as the sunrise. “You do not mean to put an end to things, then?” he asked.

“I fear I must,” said Childermass. “But first, I mean to see what they want with the Raven King and if they have any real chance of attracting his attention.”

“And if they do?”

Childermass gave him a dark look. “Then I mean to make sure they understand the consequences of such a course.”

“What right do you have to investigate?” Segundus asked.

“It is not illegal to ask questions,” said Childermass.

“Of course.” Segundus fumbled with his words for a moment. “I only meant… will you not be stepping on some toes? Suppose they do not want us to interfere.”

Childermass was silent for the space of a few breaths. “The last time a full-scale rebellion broke out, it ended in workers being shot. These men are heading in the same direction, and they’ll end up the same way if no one interferes.”

“I think it is admirable for you to protect them,” said Segundus.

Childermass smiled, no more than a quick twitch in the corner of his mouth, but a smile nonetheless. “I suspect you would find it less admirable if I told you that I care less about their individual lives and more about keeping peace in the land.” He took his eyes off Segundus, who felt the loss keenly, and stared instead out the window of the coach. “The next few years will bring many disruptions. Magic has returned, and yet we have no books of it, save the one. The Raven King has returned, but who could say what his motives are? Mark my words, sir, we are at the beginning of a period of great unrest, and England can only take so much of it. If all this happened at a different time, I might have been a Johannite myself.”

“You think their movement might grow out of control?”

Childermass nodded at that, his gaze still fixed on the countryside. “Any one of them what dies for the cause now will become a martyr— not just for the Johannites but for all those loyal to the Raven King. Any conflict could escalate into widespread violence. There are some who want Uskglass to retake the North. If things get out of control, England could be ripped apart by a civil war.”

“So if we fail,” Segundus began haltingly. “That is to say, if our investigation is unsuccessful and we cannot persuade the Johannites away from open rebellion…”

“We may be one of the causes for war in England,” Childermass finished. “Aye. You are familiar with the tales of the Raven King’s first conquest?”

Segundus nodded. “The better-known ones, at least. The exsanguination of the maid of Allendale, the rather short final battle, and so forth.”

“It would not be fast if it started tomorrow,” said Childermass. His eyes flicked briefly to Segundus’s. “It would not only be fairies conquering Christians. A great number of North Englishmen would join the Raven King’s cause. Both sides would have magic and magicians, not to mention the many machines of war that have been developed since the twelfth century.”

Segundus suddenly felt very small. There was a real possibility that the future of England rested upon himself and Childermass. He could not imagine a pair less likely to succeed. “Do you really believe I am up to the task?”

“If I did not, do you think you’d be here?” Childermass said with a touch of impatience. “The time for self-doubt is over, sir. Put it behind you.”

“I do not know if I can. I have never been without it.” This was not something Segundus had admitted to anyone, not even Mr. Honeyfoot. He couldn’t look at Childermass while he said it; his gaze was fixed out the window, on the clouds above that seemed to stretch over the land like an embrace. Their presence, strangely, comforted Segundus. He did not think he could make such a confession to the very heavens. “I do not suppose you have ever doubted yourself.”

Childermass laughed at that; it had an unpleasant edge to it. Segundus felt like he was being mocked, and he shrank back in his seat. “You suppose a great many things about me.” It was not quite the answer that Segundus had wanted, but Childermass seemed to notice the effect of his laughter. “Come now, sir,” he said in a more conciliatory tone. “If doubt is something you must carry with you whither thou goest, as it were, then allow me to lighten your burden.”

Segundus stared at him, puzzled.

“I have great faith in your abilities,” Childermass said. His tone was quite unfamiliar to Segundus. It had an insistent sincerity to it, as though he wanted to convince Segundus of his candor, yet was infinitely gentle. “Whatever esteem you lack for yourself, know that I have it. Many things I may doubt, but you are not one of them.”

Heat rushed to Segundus’s face, and he found that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Childermass’s.  _ How could he possibly respond to such a declaration? _ “I… thank you, sir,” he stammered. “That is very… heartening to hear.” Suddenly, the weight of Childermass’s gaze became too much for him to bear, and he had to look away. “Might we speak of happier topics?”

“Certainly.” Childermass’s voice had gone back to its usual rough drawl, though the edges of his words were still colored with tenderness. “Do you have anything in mind?”

Segundus cast about himself for a neutral topic. For once, he did not want to talk about magic. It would only remind him of his own inadequacy, which in turn would remind him of Childermass’s strange revelations, and he could not bear to think about those right now. They had a weight to them that necessitated taking them out in solitude and quiet contemplation beneath the shelter of the sky and looking them over very carefully. No, they must talk about something entirely unrelated. “Tell me about the Greeks and the Romans,” he said desperately. It was the first topic that had come to mind— something Childermass took interest in, but with which he himself was entirely unfamiliar. Something he had no connexions to.

Childermass raised an eyebrow. “What do you want to know about them?”

“You said you were interested in them. Their mythology. What interests you so?”

“Why do you want to know?” Childermass watched Segundus with something close to wariness, which was not at all the reaction Segundus wanted.

He shrugged, trying to feign a nonchalance that he didn’t feel. “Because it is something you’re interested in.”

That at least brought a smile to Childermass’s face, and a hint of the sadness that had been there before. “Mr. Segundus, if you were any other man, I would believe you had an ulterior motive. But yes, all right.” He settled back in his seat. “I am interested in… their societies. Their ways of life. They had some magic, of course, but it was so poorly recorded that no one’s got any idea of the shape of it.”

“They must have lived very differently from ourselves,” said Segundus. “I am afraid I do not know much about them. I wasn’t allowed books on the Greeks or the Romans when I was growing up. My father thought they might prompt bad habits in me.” Childermass gave a quiet cough at this, but he waved for Segundus to continue. “I understand many artists these days are fascinated with their architecture and sculptures, and many philosophers with their… well. Their philosophies.”

“Indeed.” Childermass’s voice had a wry tone. “They seem to be interested in very specific customs and ideas but not in others.”

“What do you mean?”

“For all their talk of preserving the knowledge of the past, many historians are more keen to put forth an idea of history that is… palatable, shall we say, to modern tastes.”

Segundus frowned. “I am well aware of the practice of historical revisionism. It makes piecing together the timeline of English magic uniquely frustrating.”

Childermass nodded once, sharply. “Several of the Mediterranean peoples of antiquity had some customs that scholars would prefer to expunge from the historical record.”

“Because they are distasteful? How frustrating. Surely lost knowledge does more harm than good.”

“I agree. I don’t care for coddling the sensibilities of gentlemen.”

“I have never known you to coddle, sir,” Segundus said. He felt an odd pang somewhere behind his ribs. “What sort of customs would scholars of ancient Greece and Rome prefer to forget?” he asked to cover his discomfort. “Or have those customs already been forgotten?”

“Many of them have, I’m sure,” said Childermass. “But I could not answer your question. Unlike the ancient peoples, you are quite without sin, sir. I will not be the cause of your corruption.”

“Oh, I would not say that,” Segundus muttered. His blood turned to ice in the next instant. He clapped his hand over his mouth as though he could pluck the unwise words out of the very air and force them back down his throat.

Childermass sat back in his seat, looking thoughtful. “No?”

Segundus’s hopes that his slip-up might go unnoticed were lost to the expression of dark calculation on Childermass’s face. His hand shook as he lowered it, and he cursed his own thoughtlessness.  _ Had he ruined himself with one foolish remark? _ Surely Childermass now knew the depths of Segundus’s shame. Surely Childermass would hate him forever— even though Segundus forgave himself for his inclinations, he knew full well the direction of public opinion.

He couldn’t bear to look at Childermass. He cast his gaze out the window once more. Now, though, the heavy clouds didn’t appear to embrace him, but to stifle and imprison him, and he had to fight the urge to jump out of the moving carriage and flee. Perhaps Childermass thought that Segundus had feigned his pain from horse-riding in order to trick him.  _ What if Childermass reacted with violence? _ It would not be unheard of. He was not sure if he could defend himself against an attack, either physical or magical. And even if Childermass did not attack him, his life was surely over. He would be the laughingstock of the county; Mrs. Lennox would abandon him and any plans they had for Starecross. He would never publish again. He would fall into ruin and disrepute.

“I can hear you fretting from where I sit, sir,” said Childermass. His voice carried an undertone of amusement and something darker that Segundus couldn’t identify. “Allow me to set your mind at ease.” He crossed the middle of the coach in a blur of motion and sat on the bench beside Segundus. After a moment of hesitation, he carefully took Segundus’s face in his hands as though lifting something precious out of peril. His touch was as delicate as the first hint of spring.

Segundus drew in a shaky breath at the sensation of Childermass’s hands on him once more, and his eyes were inexorably drawn to Childermass’s face. There was none of the sorrow he had seen earlier, only a guarded sort of smile. He couldn’t stop himself from leaning closer, too close for propriety.

“The Raven King has returned, Mr. Segundus.” Childermass brushed a lock of hair out of Segundus’s face. “You are in his country, and you are as much a North Englishman as I. You need not fear. You need not be ashamed.”

Segundus raised a trembling hand to Childermass’s hair. He ran his fingers through it as he had been wanting to do, his gaze holding steady with Childermass’s. His hand brushed down the side of Childermass’s face, tracing the faint silvery scar there, and came to rest at the back of Childermass’s neck. He felt the delicate ridges of vertebrae, and his fingers tangled in the fine hairs. Childermass shivered at his touch.

Segundus wasn’t sure which of them pulled the other to himself. In one instant, their lips were separated by words and air. In the next, they were separated by nothing at all.


	6. Knight of Swords

**May 1817**

How long they kissed for, Segundus couldn’t say. He wasn’t sure if it was many kisses, one after the other, or one continuous kiss broken up by brief intervals of quiet gasps and whispered oaths. His lips grew swollen and sore, and his hair became mussed, and his clothing was put quite out of order. Childermass’s hands were everywhere, it felt, pushing and gripping and—

“ _ Ah! _ ” Segundus cried out.

“Quiet, sir,” Childermass said, low and heated. His hand resumed its previous motion. “We cannot draw attention to ourselves.”

But Segundus found he could not be quiet. So skilled were Childermass’s hands— so deft his touch— Segundus could not help the whispered litany of praises and encouragements that spilled from his mouth. The bright spark of an idea lit in Childermass’s eyes after a particularly skillful motion of his fingers wrung a rather shameful whimper from Segundus’s throat, and Segundus shivered. Childermass hauled him around into a new position, shoving at Segundus’s limbs until he was pleased with their new arrangement.

Segundus was pleased as well. His back was pressed up against Childermass’s chest, and his head rested in the crook of Childermass’s neck and shoulder. For a brief moment, he was disappointed by the loss of the other man’s mouth on his own, but he found that his current position allowed him to lay a line of kisses along Childermass’s jaw and below his loosened neck-cloth.

Childermass tolerated this for a minute before wrapping his arm around Segundus’s torso and pressing his hand firmly over Segundus’s mouth. “You must be very quiet,” he said as his other hand found its way back into Segundus’s breeches.

Even muffled as he was, Segundus had a difficult time staying silent. Childermass’s touch turned from teasing to purposeful. He brought Segundus pleasure with a single-minded purpose, and before long, Segundus was straining against his grip.

“May I—?” Segundus asked some time later, after he had recovered. He managed a vague sort of gesture.

Childermass did not ask him to clarify what he meant. “Later,” he said, a look of dark intent on his face. “I have plans for you.” He glanced out the window. “Set yourself aright, sir. We’ll be stopping soon.”

Segundus nodded and straightened his clothes. Though he felt distinctly tumbled, his clothes had suffered very little (thanks to Childermass’s quick reflexes with a handkerchief), and it was a matter of minutes to make himself tidy once more. As he reached up to fix his hair, Childermass grabbed his wrist and placed a delicate kiss there, scarcely more than the faintest brush of his lips against Segundus’s skin. He carded his own fingers through Segundus’s hair, smoothing it down before placing Segundus’s hat back upon his head. Segundus was oddly touched by this gesture. It was not inherently an intimate one— Mr. Honeyfoot had done something similar on countless occasions when proximity to magic disrupted the order of Segundus’s hair. This did not feel like Mr. Honeyfoot’s fussing, though. This felt like something else entirely, something Segundus had never experienced.

Childermass, for his part, looked barely more rumpled than usual. He had to re-knot his neck-cloth and adjust his breeches, but seconds later, Segundus couldn’t have guessed that anything had been amiss.

“I did not know,” Segundus said. “About— well.” He made another vague gesture that encompassed all of Childermass.

Childermass looked at him. “I have been trying to tell you,” he said, “for the past several days. I have dropped hint after hint.”

“Oh.” Segundus blushed. “I never realized.”

“I was  _ shameless, _ sir.”

“And now, sir?” Segundus couldn’t look at him. “Are you still shameless?”

Childermass pressed another kiss to the inside of Segundus’s wrist. “If I were ever to be ashamed of something, it would not be this.”

\---

“Sorry, gents,” the innkeeper said. She passed a tray full of foamy beers off to a waitress with a harried air. “We only have two rooms available.”

Childermass sighed. “I suppose that’s alright,” he said with a reluctant glance at Segundus. “It is only for the night.”

Segundus did his best to assume an air of nonchalance. “I do not mind if you do not.”

“You could share with us, Mr. Childermass,” Bradshaw offered. “If you don’t want to stay with the gentleman, that is. No need for you to sleep in the stable again.”

“No, nonsense,” Segundus said. “I could not ask you to stay three to a room.”

“I couldn’t intrude on your comfort,” said Bradshaw. “It would be no great matter.”

Vinculus’s sharp eyes darted from Childermass to Segundus and back again. “Let them be,” he said to Bradshaw.

“You can sort it out between yourselves,” the innkeeper said. She shoved a pair of keys across the bar. “If you’ll excuse me, gents…”

“I am feeling rather tired,” said Segundus as the innkeeper hurried away in a swish of skirts. “I think I will take supper in my room and turn in.”

Childermass nodded. “I will come up later.”

“Actually,” Segundus said after a pause. “I was wondering if you would eat with me. I had a question about Ormskirk…”

“Of course,” said Childermass quickly. Vinculus snickered. “Bradshaw, why don’t you take the luggage up, and I will find us all supper.”

Segundus nodded, though he refused to hand his shabby suitcase over to Bradshaw. He did not think so highly of himself that he could not carry his own valise up the stairs. Childermass’s and Bradshaw’s belongings fit within a pair of saddlebags, and Vinculus carried nothing that didn’t fit in his pockets; all in all, Bradshaw only had to carry a light burden. The journey up the stairs was slow and painful. Segundus managed it on his own, though with a few more pauses to breathe and massage out cramps in his legs than he would have liked.

The room itself was pleasant enough, if rather bare. It had no wallpaper, only wooden panelling decorated with a few amateur-ish paintings. The threadbare carpet brought little cheer to the room, but the window looked out over a quaint cityscape. Segundus noted all these details in the back of his mind. His attention was focused on the furniture; namely, the bed. It looked wide enough for two, but only just. He had not forgotten Childermass’s promise of  _ later, _ and he found himself eager to find out what he had planned.

Segundus blushed when he remembered how desperate he had been earlier, how wanton. It was entirely out-of-character. He knew that he had acted most foolishly and that following his desires would only lead to more foolishness, but never for an instant did he consider refusing Childermass. He had found in Childermass a kindred spirit: a magician, an outsider in many ways, and a person of similar inclinations. He did not see why he should deny himself happiness only because said spirit was a man.

“I fear I was too hasty this afternoon,” came Childermass’s voice from behind him.

Segundus started; he hadn’t heard Childermass come up the stairs. “No, sir,” he said. “I was. But I suppose I might be forgiven, considering the provocation I was subjected to.”

Childermass held a platter upon which sat two bowls of stew, a loaf of bread, and two tankards of what Segundus presumed was ale. He had a look of cautious amusement on his face. “You jest,” he said as though he were not certain of the answer.

Segundus nodded, suddenly unable to speak. Perhaps making a joke was not the proper way of doing things. He cursed his own inexperience. Childermass was not the sort of man who liked to be made fun of, he knew. But Childermass’s face did not crumple into an angry frown; he did not have the look of a slighted man. Instead, his smile widened, and some of Segundus’s fears eased away.

“You brought dinner,” Segundus said, then immediately wished he hadn’t.  _ Of course Childermass brought dinner. He had just said he would! _

“I did.” Childermass paused. “Are you hungry?”

Segundus took stock of himself. He wasn’t sure if  _ hungry _ was the word for what he was feeling; if it were, he did not think his hunger could be satisfied by the stew. Whatever it was he felt had been mounting since the afternoon, creating a steady and distracting pressure in the back of Segundus’s mind. He didn’t know how to communicate this to Childermass, though, so he shook his head.

With a faint sigh, Childermass set the tray down on the wooden trunk that stood at the foot of the bed. “You had a question about Ormskirk?”

“I could not care less about Ormskirk,” said Segundus. “It is the furthest thing from my mind.” He took a slow step toward Childermass, feeling as though he were drawn in by an irresistible force, and then another and another, until he was standing very close to him. Warmth radiated from Childermass’s body as he reached up with both hands to undo the tie that bound Childermass’s hair at the back of his neck. Childermass allowed him to do this, to take this great and private liberty, while his heated gaze fixed on Segundus. His hair felt rough beneath Segundus’s fingers. Segundus marveled at the texture. He half-expected it to slip through his hands like water, but no— it felt similar to his own, if rather unkempt.

Childermass allowed this treatment for a minute, a faint smile quirking his lips, before taking ahold of Segundus’s hands and pulling him toward the bed. “Sit,” he said. “We ought to talk.”

“You are very bossy,” Segundus informed him, but he sat anyway.

Childermass nodded. “It’s a failing of mine.”

“Not a failing, sir,” said Segundus. He did not want to talk. He wanted— “I believe you said you had plans.” His face heated again at his own boldness.

Childermass didn’t seem to mind, though. He gave Segundus a smile reminiscent of a predator— a wolf, Segundus thought woozily, or perhaps a very large cat— and pressed him back against the pillows.

\---

The last leg of the journey to Duffield was a matter of hours. A fitful patter of rain, the sort that couldn’t seem to make up its mind on whether it wanted to fall or not, had started up in the early hours of the morning and turned much of the road to mud. Vinculus had not become such a steadfast friend to Bradshaw that he would refuse a respite from the rain if it were offered, so he sat sullenly in the coach with Childermass and Segundus.

Much of the ride was silent, save for the usual horse-noises and coach-noises accompanied by intermittent rainfall. Segundus buried himself in a text concerning the distinctions between Welsh and Cornish magic— a topic he would have found interesting if not for the writer’s horribly dull prose. As it was, he couldn’t focus, and he found himself sneaking glances at Childermass every few sentences.

Childermass, for his part, appeared to be intent on the notes he made in a periodical, but there were times when Segundus glanced at him and found him glancing back. These tiny instances of shared affection (if that was what it was) warmed Segundus to his very core.

It was a dangerous feeling, he knew. He could not say what the future might bring, and he could hardly ask Childermass to consult his cards. There was no way of knowing how long this dalliance might last for, or even if Childermass wanted it to continue. But despite his best efforts, the faint fluttering of hope stirred in his chest. He couldn’t help but nurture it, though he suspected it would be worse for him in the end.

They arrived in Duffield before luncheon. The rain had slowed to a disconsolate drizzle that, in the short amount of time during which they stood outside an inn, somehow found its way through the edges and seams of Segundus’s coat. Vinculus and Bradshaw made their goodbyes after Bradshaw tied Segundus’s horse to the coach, and Segundus pressed a few extra coins into the coachman’s hand.

“The fee for the horse,” he said. “And for lodging on the journey home. Are you quite sure you do not want to put up in a pub until the rain passes?”

Bradshaw looked at the gloomy sky. “It won’t be passin’ anytime soon, I’d say. And I’ve got to get back to Mr. ‘oneyfoot.”

“Of course you do,” said Segundus. “Give him my best wishes and my heartfelt gratitude.”

Bradshaw nodded at that, and after clasping Vinculus’s arm one last time, set himself back on the path he had only just completed.

The inn was a two-story building of the same rough brown stone that made up most of the town. It sat on the bank of the River Derwent; though Segundus couldn’t see the river from where he stood, he heard its charming burble. A carved wooden sign, worn clean of paint, identified it as the Bridge Inn. Segundus supposed it took its name from the nearby stone bridge that spanned the river.

“I’ll be getting my own room, then?” Vinculus said as they stepped into the inn.

“I’ve heard quite enough of your snoring for the rest of my lifetime,” said Childermass. “And I’d not inflict you on Mr. Segundus. You’ll get your own room, but if you run up a bill, I’ll put you in the stables.”

Vinculus laughed at that. “There’s no need for these contrivances.”

“They’re not for your benefit.” Childermass shot a deliberate look around the room.

Segundus frowned as he caught the meaning of the look. The  _ contrivances, _ as Vinculus called them, were for  _ his _ benefit. When a gentleman travelled with two men of a lower rank and did not get himself a room of his own, speculation and raised eyebrows were sure to follow. This was not so when two pairs of men travelled together, for sharing then was a necessity if the men wanted to be economical. But questions of propriety might be raised if a gentleman had the opportunity for privacy and did not take it. Segundus did not like the implication— that he ought to hold himself above Childermass and regard their sharing a bed, even in the most literal sense, as a sort of lowering of his station.

Segundus did not have long to brood on these thoughts, though. They crossed the warm, wood-panelled interior of the Bridge Inn. A fire burned despite the season, and Segundus was thankful for the heat. Their arrival caused only a small stir among the current patrons of the public house that appeared to take up the first floor.

No innkeeper or bartender stood behind the bar on the far side of the main room. Childermass rang the bell for service, then rang it again, more impatiently, a minute later when no one appeared. Just as he was about to ring the bell a third time, a harried-looking man with an impressive mustache appeared from a door to the back room.

“Yes, yes, here I am,” the man said. “What is it?”

Childermass raised an eyebrow at the rude reception. “Two rooms, please,” he said.

The man looked Childermass up and down and seemed to disapprove of what he saw. His disapproval only grew as he regarded Segundus and Vinculus. “How long will you be staying?” he said grudgingly.

“Indefinitely.” Childermass smiled a toothy smile that Segundus rarely saw these days. It had appeared more frequently only a few months ago when magic had first returned to England. It was the smile Childermass gave people who begrudged serving a man of his station, or listening to his opinions, or treating him in any way as a person as deserving of respect and esteem as they themselves were. More than one magician from the Society had been the recipient of such a smile.

“Oh? Well, I am afraid that—”

“My name is Mr. Segundus, sir. We represent the Learned Society of York Magicians,” Segundus said before the innkeeper could finish. He shaped his voice into the long-disused vowels of the cultured society accent his tutor had forced into him. “We have pressing business here in your charming town. Now, if you please, Mr…”

“Ah, Fawlty, sir,” the innkeeper— Mr. Fawlty— said. The condescension of a moment ago was replaced by a rather astonished expression.

“Mr. Fawlty. We will be staying here indefinitely while we conduct our business. Two rooms, if you please.” He counted out a measure of coins, taking care not to reveal how light his coin-purse was, and passed them across the bar-table. “For the first week.”

Mr. Fawlty handed over the keys without another word.

“I am impressed, Mr. Segundus,” Childermass said close to Segundus’s ear as they made their way toward the stairs. Segundus could not suppress the shiver that ran through his body, and Childermass chuckled. “I had thought you quite without guile.”

\---

Segundus declared, upon reaching the room, that he should very much like to wash away the grime of travel and change out of his wet clothes. Childermass agreed readily enough, and Segundus eyed him with suspicion, but he seemed to have no ulterior motive. He interrupted himself in the middle of dressing, though— his waistcoat only half-buttoned and his necktie loosely draped around his neck— to lay his cards of Marseilles out on the writing desk.

“How shall we proceed with the investigation?” Segundus asked as he and Childermass unpacked— or, at least, as he unpacked and Childermass frowned at the spread of cards in front of him.

“That is what I am currently trying to determine,” Childermass said without looking up. Something he saw in the cards confused him; he picked one up and turned it over and over in one hand as he bit his other thumb.

Segundus smiled. Childermass’s tendency to chew on his fingers was not a polite habit, but Segundus found it rather endearing. He allowed this for a minute before he took hold of Childermass’s wrist and plucked the card from his hand; it was the Knight of Swords. “What does this mean?” he asked.

Childermass frowned up at him as though he had forgotten Segundus was there. “It is a warning,” he said, “against acting foolishly and with baseless confidence. The cards tell me not to rush into an unfamiliar, and possibly dangerous, situation before I have taken stock of it.”

“I did not know the cards of Marseilles could be so specific,” Segundus said.

“Only if you ask the right questions.” Childermass heaved a sigh and rose from the table. He strode across the room to the saddlebags he had draped over the foot of the bed and withdrew a new-looking memorandum book, a bottle of ink, and a quill. He scribbled a letter in a spiky handwriting that Segundus could barely decipher.

“What are you doing?” Segundus asked.

“Making contact with an old acquaintance,” Childermass said absently.

“Why?”

“Because I must heed the warning of the Knight of Swords. We cannot begin a proper investigation into the Johannites without more information on how matters stand here. We need to go about this quietly and with great care.” Childermass finally looked up. “We should have the opportunity to meet with my acquaintance later this evening, and we can proceed from there. I had also thought to write to the Derby Magical Society.”

“Whatever for?”

“To watch over Vinculus, of course. I would rather the time I am unable to study him myself not be completely wasted.”

“Do you know anyone in the Derby Magical Society?”

“Only a few that I have met in passing when I took Vinculus to them. I have one in mind whom I think would be suitable— a fellow called Marlowe.” Childermass laid out another spread of cards and frowned at them for some time before setting pen to paper once more. The letter to Marlowe was done in a neater hand and had a refined tone to it, from what little scraps Segundus could read in the quick glances he took. He commented on this difference, and Childermass laughed.

“It is not very gentlemanly to read other people’s letters,” Childermass chided. He was still smiling, though, so Segundus didn’t mind.

The letters had to be posted differently, as well. The letter to Marlowe would be sent in the usual way— in the afternoon post, where hopefully it would arrive in Derby the next day. The other letter, the one to Childermass’s acquaintence in town, was sent in a more magical way. Childermass held it close to his mouth and whispered words into it, and it disappeared from his hands. His magic was like a slow deep river that moved almost silently through a secret forest, and Segundus felt dizzy as it rolled over him.

“Why do you not send the other one like that?” Segundus asked as the magic dissipated and he came back to himself.

Childermass watched him with a fond sort of smile. “Because I must be quite familiar with the recipient,” he said. “I have only met Marlowe two or three times.”

“But you are quite familiar with your acquaintance?”

“That is why she is called an acquaintance.”

“Typically, one calls acquaintances with whom one is quite familiar  _ friends. _ ” Belatedly, Segundus picked up on the pronoun. “She?”

Childermass gave a tiny nod. “A maid at Duffield Hall.” Something must have shown on Segundus’s face, because Childermass smiled in a way that was surely meant to be reassuring. (Childermass did not have much practice at being reassuring.) “You have no cause for jealousy, sir.”

“I am not jealous,” Segundus muttered. “You are free to make the  _ familiar acquaintance _ of as many maids as you please.”

“I know her from my childhood,” continued Childermass as though Segundus had not interrupted. “She is my sister, by upbringing if not by blood.”

Loath as he was to admit it, Segundus’s mind eased.

Childermass smiled as though he knew the effect his words had. “Come, sir,” he said, standing. “Let me tidy myself up, and we shall inform Vinculus of our plan. And perhaps we could find a bite to eat.”

“I like you untidy, though,” said Segundus. He was right; Childermass did appreciate boldness, as evidenced by the heated look Childermass shot him. Segundus fumbled with his troublesome necktie until Childermass took notice.

“Here,” Childermass said as he stood from the desk. “Give it me.”

“You do not have to dress me,” said Segundus.

Childermass rolled his eyes. “This again. We have undressed each other, sir. Why may we not dress each other as well?”

“You have not allowed me to dress you,” Segundus argued, even as he submitted to Childermass’s deft hands as they fit the cloth around his neck.

“My neck-cloth remains untied.” And so it did, exposing a triangle of pale flesh. Segundus leaned forward and set his lips, then his teeth, at Childermass’s throat. Childermass chuckled, and Segundus felt the vibration against his temple. “Time enough for that later,” Childermass said as he pulled Segundus away by the roots of his hair. “You must dress me properly, now. We have business to attend to.”

\---

**March 1817**

Captain Simon Oakes of the Derbyshire militia was quite accustomed to receiving urgent demands for his presence in some remote area of the countryside, so when he was summoned to Seagrave, in Leicestershire, he was not as surprised as he might otherwise have been. The occasion was a personal one, however, not an official declaration of where the militia would encamp next, so he reserved the right to be a little surprised. Colonel Forster was loath to let him go, but Oakes pointed out that he could not very well ignore a summons from his mother’s brother, who was a baron besides, and the colonel capitulated after almost no wheedling.

“I expect you back in a week,” Colonel Forster said. “That’s all the time I can spare you.”

“Certainly, sir,” Oakes assured him. “I expect to be back even sooner than that. My uncle and I have not spoken in some time, so this is sure to be no great matter.”

Colonel Forster frowned but made no objection, and within the hour, Oakes was in the saddle and on his way to Seagrave.

Leicestershire was a charming enough county, to be sure, though it couldn’t compare to Derbyshire. Its grasses were a touch duller, its foliage not so lush, the breeze less sweet and the birdsongs harsher to the ear. Oakes could tell the difference immediately upon crossing the border, as he remarked to a postman while they shared a patch of shade for lunch.

The postman looked at him oddly. “You are still in Derbyshire, sir.”

“No, that cannot be!” Oakes cried. “I could feel the change in the air, more than five miles back.”

“The border is a mile yon,” said the postman, tilting his head in the direction of Oakes’s heading. “I drive this route every week; I think I can be expected to know where the border lies.”

“Well, they must have changed it,” Oakes said decisively. “For I am quite positive that this land does not have the spirit of Derbyshire, and it should not be included with the rest of that beautiful county.”

“As you say, sir,” said the postman. He took his leave not long after that, and Oakes was left alone to contemplate the fallen spirit of Leicestershire, in which he remained firmly convinced he sat. He made a note to research the history of the border between Derbyshire and Leicestershire; specifically, if it had changed recently, and how one might go about campaigning to change it back. So absorbed was he in these thoughts that he nearly forgot to think of all the other considerations that a gentleman travelling alone ought to make, such as where he might find a room for the night if the inn were full or what were he to do if his horse threw a shoe.

Fortunately, neither of those situations occurred for the whole of the journey, nor did any other inconveniences arise, though Simon Oakes would have been remiss if they had. But perhaps it was just as well, for the country he travelled through was full of magic and mischief which would surely have led him astray had he been paying the slightest attention to his surroundings. A fairy with hair the color of a rain-swelled river in spring and eyes as cold as drowning tried no less than three times to tempt him away from his path, and he passed by two mysterious fairy roads and one sweet-smelling fairy orchard, all without the slightest flicker of notice. Through no fault of his own, Oakes was quite immune to the trickery that was laid out before him, and he reached his destination of Seagrave entirely untroubled by magic.

Seagrave was a small, charming village with a well-groomed green in the center. Trees sprouted throughout the village in all sorts of unlikely places, as though they had insisted on growing right where they were, and the village would just have to content itself with settling around them. The haphazardly-arranged buildings were mostly of red brick or dull grey stone, and the people in the village looked appropriately amazed at Oakes’s scarlet militia officer’s uniform. (He reflected that perhaps he should not have worn it, as he was not about on official militia business, but he had packed in such a haste that he had forgotten to bring any clothes other than his spare uniform and his nightshirt.)

Oakes had spent very little time in Seagrave in his youth, though he remembered visiting his uncle, the baron, once or twice. Thus, all its charms were nearly new to him. He asked for directions to Seagrave Hall and was given them with the proper amount of respect and deference due his station. The hall was quite close to the village, with scarcely any rolling meadows or stretches of hedgerows setting it apart. Oakes trotted his horse up the lane and was met with a groom in neat livery.

“You will see to my horse, won’t you?” he said as he passed the reins off. “He is a finicky creature. I’d stable him properly myself— one learns these things in the militia, you see, and I am a captain— but his lordship is expecting me.”

“I’ll see to your horse, sir,” said the groom with a carefully blank face.

Thus satisfied that his horse was in good care, Oakes made his way around to the front of the house and rang the doorbell. A footman emerged in good time (Oakes was slightly hurt that he did not warrant a butler, but perhaps the man was ill or occupied elsewhere), greeted him, and asked who might be calling.

“Captain Simon Oakes, of the Derbyshire militia.” Oakes gave a small bow. “I’m here to see Baron Segrave.”

“His lordship is very busy, sir” said the footman. “I am afraid you will have to wait.”

That pulled Oakes up short. “He is expecting me.”

The footman’s brow furrowed, then smoothed. “Ah! You are his lordship’s nephew. Forgive me, Mr. Oakes. His lordship is in the library. If you’ll just follow me...”

The walk to the library was short, so Oakes had little time to contemplate the tasteful artwork or the richness of the tapestries that hung upon the walls, but he made sure to note one or two particularly attractive pieces so he might compliment his uncle on them at an appropriate time. He had little experience with barons, relations or no, but he thought that would be the sort of comment that would endear himself.

The footman opened the door to the library and cleared his throat. “Captain Oakes,” he announced.

A man of noble bearing somewhat past middle age but no less diminished by it stood from an armchair by the fire. He could only be the Baron Segrave, not just by virtue of being the only other man in the room, but by his grave and steady air which Oakes was sure could belong to no other.

Oakes bowed with a flourish. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, my lord.” Then, upon recalling that he had indeed made the acquaintance of his uncle many years ago, when he was scarcely old enough to remember— “That is to say, delighted to meet with you once more. My lord.”

The baron seemed amused by Oakes’s slip of the tongue, but he did not say anything to embarrass him further. Instead, he said, “Please, let us do away with such formality. We are family, after all, and you are my heir.”

At first, Oakes did not believe his ears, and he had to beg the baron to repeat himself, which he did with some amusement. It was only then that the news firmly took root in Oakes’s mind and he began to accept it for fact.  _ The heir of the Baron Segrave! _ It was like something out of a novel. He could hardly conceive of anything more thrilling to hear, which he informed his uncle. “It has never been made known to me that I am your heir! Do you not have children of your own?”

“A daughter only,” the baron said. “Your cousin Amelia. And the estate is entailed to the title, which may only be passed down through the male line. I thought it high time we get to know one another.”

“Of course, of course!” said Oakes. “Me! The heir of your title! Upon my word, I hardly know what to say.”

“I apologize for not informing you earlier in your life. I had hoped my wife might bear me a son, but alas, we were not so blessed. I thought it best for you to establish yourself in the world for some time before returning here to see to the management of the estate.”

“Oh, certainly,” Oakes agreed. “I am proud to say I have made a good name for myself in the militia. I am of a mind with your lordship. If I had seen little of the world beyond the borders of this charming village, I think I should be a very foolish fellow indeed.”

“Come, now. I must ask that you address me as Cousin William, and I shall address you in turn as Cousin Simon. I could not demand such formality from my heir.”

“Very well, Cousin William.” The name felt odd in his mouth, and he had to mentally rehearse it several times to get it right.

The footman arrived with tea, and Oakes and the baron—  _ Cousin William— _ settled into armchairs opposite a low table. “I am delighted to hear that you have made a name for yourself in the militia. You are a captain, you said?”

Oakes nodded eagerly, and with little further prompting, launched into tales of his life in the regiment and how he had risen through its ranks. He told of the men under his command, their peacekeeping efforts, their training, and all the little details he could think of. He took care to paint himself in as flattering a light as possible, which was not difficult, for he was good-natured and high-spirited and, as Colonel Forster often said, “the continual delight of the regiment.”

William listened to these tales with a calm, amused air, nodding in all the right places, prompting Oakes to explain himself further, and in all ways being the most obliging conversation-partner a man who liked to talk about himself could want.

Oakes’s tea had grown cold in his hands before he realized that he had not asked his uncle any questions about himself or the estate. He attempted to rectify this immediately, only to be met with a surprising dampening of his uncle’s spirits.

“I had hoped we might avoid this topic until we are better acquainted,” Cousin William said heavily. “For I regret to inform you that the estate is in a poor shape indeed. Before the war, I invested much of my money in textile mills; indeed, I even founded one or two myself. My banker informed me that it was an option that could not fail. But unfortunately, fail it has. The war wreaked havoc on the economy, and the awful business with the Johannites in the past few years has affected my finances severely. My debts— the estate’s debts— are considerable.”

What horrid news for a man who has just been informed of his heritage to receive! But Oakes’s spirits quickly recovered. “I am certain that, working together, we can set it aright! I have an excellent sense for business.”

William seemed somewhat cheered by this news. “Yes, you seem like just the man who can help me save the estate.” He got up and paced along the length of the library, cutting an impressive figure. “I confess that a singular event occurred to precipitate our meeting. I received notice that there may well be a Johannite rebellion brewing in a location where I own a mill.”

Oakes was shocked at this news. “Even after all the trials last year?”

William nodded grimly. “Even so. You can see my distress, then. I want to pass on a profitable estate to my only heir, and yet I am besieged by ill tidings on all sides.”

At first, Oakes was very much disheartened. How distressing it was to have such thrilling news tempered so quickly by misfortune! But then the solution hit him in a bolt of brilliance, and he marveled at its simplicity. “Why, sir! I believe you spoke rightly, a moment ago. I am indeed just the man to help you save the estate!” Cousin William looked at him in askance. “I shall decamp my men from their current position and move them to this location. The presence of the militia will surely quell any whispers of rebellion.”

A look of astonishment came over William’s face, followed by slow-spreading delight. He darted across the room to grab Oakes’s hand in both of his. “My dear sir!” he cried. “What a splendid idea! How marvellously that would solve all our problems! I only wish I had thought of it myself. But no matter, you have proved your genius and I am now even more assured of your ability to manage the estate when I am gone! What a perfectly brilliant solution.” The joy seemed to slowly drain from his expression, which grew worried once more. “But what if the Johannites do not cease their rebellion?”

“Well, I…” Truthfully, Oakes had not considered the possibility. “I am certain I can find some way of convincing them.”

“Certainly. I trust that you will take any appropriate actions to ensure the cessation of any troublesome activities.” Cousin William shot Oakes a sly glance. “Recent methods have been effective deterrents, wouldn’t you say?”

“The trials, you mean? Yes— most effective.” Oakes shifted uncomfortably. “Only, I do not want to put anyone on trial.”

William clapped him on the shoulder. “I am certain, more than certain, it will not come to that. You will be able to make these people see sense. I have the utmost faith in you.” Here, he hesitated. “And I know that you will do what must be done to protect your inheritance, should it come to that. That is why I have such trust in you, Cousin Simon.”

Oakes took a deep breath and nodded, which seemed to cheer Cousin William greatly.

“Come,” the baron said. “Enough talk of such dark topics. It is a beautiful day. Allow me to show you your new estate.”

Oakes smiled and followed his uncle out of the library.


	7. Convergence

**May 1817**

Childermass’s sister turned out to be a woman named Maggie. She did not give a last name, and Segundus did not ask. The few strands of hair that had escaped her bonnet were an ashy honey color, and her eyes were a cold sort of green. Her clothes, though neat, were nondescript— not fashionable, but not far enough out of fashion to be noticeable. She moved tentatively, Segundus saw as she crossed the public house that made up the bottom floor of the Bridge Inn. She moved like a rabbit crossing an open field, knowing that a hawk made its home in the trees nearby.

As she approached, Segundus stood from his seat in the booth next to Childermass. (Vinculus was not present— Childermass had purchased for him several bottles of wine in exchange for his promise that he would remain in his rooms for the evening. Segundus thought this was a wise maneuver.) Childermass remained in his seat, smiling around his pipe, and earned himself a scolding look.

“There is no need to stand,” Childermass said. “It is only Maggie.”

Segundus moved behind her chair to help her into it, and Childermass laughed openly. He did not feel like he was being mocked, though, so he did not mind it as much.

“You’ve found yourself quite the gentleman,” Maggie said after introductions were made and Segundus settled into his own chair. “When you said you had a man with you, I thought you meant another one of us.”

“No,” said Childermass. “He is not one of us.”

“I suppose I might speak for myself!” Segundus said. “Who is  _ us _ , exactly?”

Maggie’s eyes flickered between the two men. “I misspoke. I apologize.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Childermass said with a sigh. “Mr. Segundus, all she meant was that I have done some favors in the past for my siblings.”

“You got me where I am, right enough,” Maggie muttered.

Childermass nodded to her politely, but Segundus could read irritation in the lines of his face. “Fortune granted me a good position with Mr. Norrell. I had enough influence to share my luck with those who had less of it.”

Segundus had a flurry of questions, but he decided to ask them later. Childermass would be more forthcoming in the privacy of their room. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Maggie.”

“Likewise,” Maggie said, though she still had a guarded look in her eye.

A waiter appeared, and Childermass ordered three meals of fried fish and white bread rolls, along with two ales and a glass of Madeira-wine for Maggie.

She raised her eyebrow at this request. “Must be a big favor you’re asking of me.”

“I can’t buy my favorite sister a glass of wine?” Childermass said with an ironical smile.

“You’ve never had a favorite anything,” said Maggie, but she accepted the wine happily when the waiter poured it. She looked Segundus up and down with calculating eyes. “And now, it seems, you have two.”

Segundus froze at that, his blood running cold. He must have given himself away— a hitch of his breath, perhaps, or a clench of his hand— because Childermass’s hand dropped below the table for an instant and squeezed his thigh. It was the merest suggestion of pressure, nothing that might be noticed by a casual observer, but it was reassuring nonetheless.

“You’re right, I suppose, about the favor,” Childermass said to cover the moment. “But I don’t expect it to be an imposition. We just want a bit of information.”

“About the Johannites?” Maggie asked.

Childermass frowned. “How did you know?”

“It’s Duffield,” said Maggie with a dark look. “What else would you want information on?”

Childermass gestured expansively to her with his mug of ale. “As you say.”

“Alright, then,” Maggie said. “There’s three men, I’ve heard— craftsmen, of course— and at least one woman, though her influence is harder to figure.”

“You know their names?” Childermass asked.

“Only two: Hastings and Ainsworth. They were the real troublemakers. Everyone else just got mixed up in it.” She took a sip of her wine. “That’s the story, at least.”

“And why won’t they leave off?” Childermass leaned forward in his seat, his eyes intent on Maggie’s face. “Why do they keep trying to stir up a rebellion after the shootings last year?”

Maggie shrugged at that. “You’ll have to ask them.”

“I intend to. Do you know their addresses?”

Maggie took another sip of wine and gave it an approving sort of nod. “Hastings lives near the church. Ainsworth’s staying at his family’s farm now— it’s called Yew Tree— but he used to live in the southern part of town.” She watched Childermass for a moment, her cold eyes tracing along the lines of his face. “I’m not playing a part in the death of these men, am I?”

“Is that what you think of me?” Childermass asked. He filled his pipe with smooth, practiced movements, barely taking his eyes off the woman in front of him. Maggie didn’t answer, and he sighed. “And after I bought you wine.”

“Am I wrong?”

“Yes,” said Childermass with a touch of impatience. He puffed his pipe, and the smell of smoke bit at Segundus’s nose. “About this and many other things.”

Maggie looked down, abashed. Her fingers trailed restlessly over the stem of the wineglass as though trying to memorize the whorls and ridges of the cut glass. “I barely know you as a magician, John,” she said after a moment. “Not half so well as when you were a thief.”

Segundus drew a sharp breath with the intention of coming to Childermass’s defense, but a warning glance from Childermass silenced him. Still, he couldn’t help but seethe. What right did this woman have to name Childermass  _ thief? _ He, of course, was perfectly entitled to think of Childermass in that manner, for Childermass had stolen magic from him more than once, but that didn’t mean he wanted the fellow’s good name (such as it was) to be slandered by this unknown entity. He was slowly becoming aware that his feelings toward Childermass were not entirely rational.

“I forgive you,” said Childermass, and Maggie huffed a breath of laughter.

“Oh, well, that’s very kind of you,” she said.

“This rebellion, then. How far has it gone?”

Maggie shrugged. “Not very. No machines have been broken here, and I’ve not heard of any talk of burning down the mill. The whole thing’s mostly driven by hot air and ale. Hastings and Ainsworth may have said some unwise things, but nowt to get themselves tried for treason.” She sighed. “If the likes of you and the soldiers would stop fanning the flames, I’d wager it’d all die down in a month or so.”

“Soldiers?” Segundus repeated, alarmed.

Maggie gave him an odd look. “Militiamen, aye, led by some young captain who struts about the town as though he owns the place. You didn’t see them when you came into town?”

“Now that you mention it…” said Segundus. He did remember seeing several men in red uniforms strolling around. “But I thought they were off-duty, perhaps on a tour or a leave of absence.”

Maggie exchanged a glance with Childermass.  _ You’ve picked up a rather dull blade, haven’t you? _ her gaze seemed to say. Segundus couldn’t read Childermass’s answer from his position at his side, but he supposed it was along the lines of  _ yes, he’s a tiresome fellow indeed, but he has his uses. _

“They’re here to keep the peace,” Maggie said dismissively. “Though they’re the ones disturbing it, the great louts.”

“They’re not harassing anyone?” asked Childermass with a faint air of alarm.

“No, nothing like that.” Maggie tilted her head to the side. “But they’re a disruption, y’see?”

Childermass nodded. “I do, indeed.”

Their dinners arrived, and they ate mostly in silence. Segundus did his best to mimic the rougher style of his dining companions; he had the sense that the refined manners that had been forced into him would only mark him as even more of an outsider than he already obviously was.

Afterward, Maggie raised her glass to Childermass and drank the remaining wine in one swallow. “I’ve told you all I know. I should go before I’m spotted.”

“You’ve got a decent, respectable position,” Childermass said, so quietly Segundus couldn’t hear. “There’s no need for fear.”

Maggie scoffed at that. “Is that what you tell your gentleman?”

Childermass’s expression turned mulish at that point, but he still gave her a polite kiss on the cheek when she stood to leave. “You really are my favorite, you know,” he said.

“Aye,” Maggie said. “You as well.” She left shortly after without a backward glance.

Segundus knew that he ought to take her seat across from Childermass, now she had gone. There was little sense in remaining in the booth next to him; they could not properly converse. But every now and then, some part of Childermass would brush up against his body— Childermass’s elbow against his side, or Childermass’s fingers against the back of his hand— and Segundus would feel a spark of heat dance across his skin. He wanted to keep feeling those tiny sparks, though whether they were magic or his own imagination he couldn’t say.

Childermass breathed a sigh (of relief, Segundus suspected) as Maggie left and refilled his pipe. “Always nice to catch up with old friends.”

“I suppose so,” Segundus said doubtfully. “Why did she call you a thief?”

Childermass looked at him sideways and exhaled slowly. The smoke wound around his head in thin rivulets. For a second, it almost seemed to take on the texture of feathers, but the effect was gone in an instant. “That is a conversation that ought to be had with an ale in hand,” he said, his voice smoke-roughened.

Segundus noticed the invitation for what it was and nodded. A minute later, he and Childermass each had another ale, and the air around their booth smelled pleasantly of tobacco-smoke from Childermass’s pipe.

Childermass drank deeply from his mug with the air of a man fortifying himself before a difficult encounter. “She called me a thief,” he began, “because I was one, as was she.”

“She had no right to judge you, then!” Segundus said indignantly. He realized that the level of his outrage perhaps did not match the offense, as Childermass himself had just admitted to being a thief, but it seemed unimportant at the time.

“She was not judging me,” said Childermass. “She only said the truth. We were pickpockets, as children. All of us were.”

_ Us _ again. Segundus sat back in his booth and took a long draught of his ale. He wasn’t used to the taste (he tended to drink wines or sherries, when he drank at all) and he coughed at the bitterness that filled his mouth. Childermass laughed and thumped him on the back. The unceremonious touch, brief and rough though it was, warmed him more than the ale. He marvelled at the ease with which Childermass touched him, despite— or perhaps because of— its casual nature. Segundus was not a person who was used to  _ touch. _ He would have thought Childermass was similar, but perhaps the ale (Childermass had already finished his second mug) loosened his sensibilities.

“Have I shocked you, sir?” Childermass asked after Segundus had stopped coughing.

“Were you trying to?” countered Segundus.

Childermass muttered something indistinct under his breath. “Perhaps a bit. Did it work?”

Segundus shrugged. “Not really.”

“Well then.” Childermass leaned back against the booth, and his knee nudged Segundus’s under the table. “You know my story, now. There are not very many who do.”

“It is an honor,” Segundus said, at which Childermass broke out in laughter. Segundus didn’t know why; it certainly was an honor for Childermass, usually so guarded, to entrust such information to Segundus.

“Well,” Childermass said after he settled down. “Now we know where to begin looking— Hastings and Ainsworth.” He pulled his deck of cards from the pocket of his coat and shuffled them. Segundus watched in fascination as he methodically laid them out on the table.

“What question did you put to them?” asked Segundus as Childermass turned over the first card.

Childermass frowned down at the cards as he turned them over. “I asked after Hastings’ motives. I expected self-interest, perhaps justice if he were a man concerned with righteousness, but this shows me pride.”

“Pride?” Segundus repeated. “I suppose that makes sense. A humble man would not believe he could lead a revolution.”

Childermass didn’t look up, so absorbed was he in his reading. “No, the cards do not mean pride in that sense. Hastings is a man of strong ideals who, once committed to a goal, will strive toward it ceaselessly.”

“He is stubborn, then.”

“Yes, perhaps that is a better word for it.” Childermass smiled at Segundus, fast and bright as a flash of lightning. “Now for Ainsworth.” He turned the cards over one by one, and his disgruntled expression cleared. “Yes, that’s more like it. Ainsworth is angry. He believes his cause is just, and he’s willing to see it through to the end.” He raised an eyebrow at something he saw in the cards. “It doesn’t look like it will be a pleasant one.”

“He will not achieve his goals?” Segundus asked.

“The cards don’t say,” said Childermass absently. He picked up a card and tapped its edge against the table. “Either way, it won’t end well for Ainsworth.”

“What a marvellous thing,” Segundus said. “To be able to read the future in the cards.”

“Aye, marvellous.” Childermass didn’t look as though he found it particularly marvellous.

Segundus was beginning to feel the effects of his second ale. His head felt light and woozy, not unlike the sensation of magic being worked nearby. He remembered the time a few days ago (had it really been only a few days?) when Childermass had cast a spell to grant him a deep and restful sleep. What a clever spell it had been! How light it had made him feel, and how well he had slept afterward! Perhaps Childermass might be persuaded to cast the spell again. Although, Segundus reflected, it might not be prudent to combine the effects of alcohol and sleeping spells. And he couldn’t ask Childermass to cast a spell in such a state as he was in, with the color rising high on his cheeks and his hands unsteady on his cards.

“You seem to be affected by your drink,” Childermass said, his amusement apparent in his voice.

Segundus realized that he had leaned against Childermass so that his arm, from his shoulder to his elbow, was pressed up against Childermass’s own. “Perhaps I am, sir.”

“Then would it not be wise, sir, if I were to guide you to your room?” Childermass’s voice was low and warm against his ear.

“It is your room too,” Segundus informed him.

Childermass huffed a laugh. “It is indeed.”

They made their way up the stairs, stumbling against one another. Segundus was careful not to let his hands wander anywhere improper, at least until they were behind the safety of a locked door.

“You are insatiable, sir,” Childermass said with a breathless sort of laugh.

“Am I?” Segundus suddenly felt shy, and he withdrew his hands— or, at least, he tried to, until Childermass caught them and held them fast. This was all so very new to him.  _ Had he overstepped a boundary?  _ “I do not mean to be.”

“It was not meant as a criticism,” said Childermass. He pressed a series of kisses along Segundus’s jaw, and Segundus’s knees went weak.

“It is only that I have—” Segundus’s voice broke off as Childermass bit at the hollow of his throat. “You see, I have never really—” He made a keening noise of discontent as Childermass pulled away.

“You have never really  _ what, _ sir?” Childermass asked. His voice wasn’t cold, exactly, but it had a careful sort of control to it that hurt Segundus to hear.

“Oh, I do hope I have not offended you!” Segundus hesitated. He had the sense that his next words might shatter Childermass, if they were the wrong ones. What a strange sensation! He was used to being the brittle one, the one who might break at a single wrong word. He had never considered that Childermass might be as fragile as him, given the correct circumstances. “It is only that I am… inexperienced, as I am sure you have already divined for yourself.”

Childermass paused. “But this is something you want? I am not… taking advantage?”

In lieu of an answer, Segundus grabbed Childermass by the hair and kissed him. He had the sensation of surrendering himself, of giving himself over, and he moaned into Childermass’s mouth in a manner that made him blush.

Childermass, for his part, seemed as enthusiastic as Segundus, and they fell into bed in short order.

\---

**May 1817**

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!” Hastings not-quite-yelled. His voice was too loud for the cozy kitchen of Yew Tree Farm. “You’ve put us all in danger.”

“There was no time,” Maggie insisted. Her hands curled into fists around the folds of her skirt. “I had to meet my brother.”

“You could have sent a note.”

“You would have tried to stop me.”

“I certainly would have! I don’t know what you intend to happen, but you should have consulted the rest of us before giving out our names.”

Maggie rested her head in her hands, her elbows propped up on the dining room table and the Johannites assembled before her like a jury. “That would have taken too long. I could not have put John off or arrived late, or he would suspect something was amiss.”

Hastings paced the length of the kitchen. “I still don’t like this.” Judging by the others’ frowns of consternation, they agreed with the sentiment.

“I did not give him all of our names,” Maggie said to the table. “Only Mr. Hastings and Mr. Ainsworth. I kept my own involvement secret as well.”

“That may be worse than if you had named each of us and given him our addresses,” said Hastings.

Maggie looked up in irritation. “You do not know my brother like I do. He must be directed with a careful hand so he does not notice he is being managed. My choices were deliberate.”

“Then please, tell us your reasoning,” Ainsworth said quietly. “I would like to know why you have betrayed us to your brother.”

Maggie was so overcome with anger at the accusation of betrayal that for a moment she could not speak. When she did, her tone was harsh and low. “I have betrayed  _ nobody. _ My brother would never have believed that I was entirely ignorant of any whispers of Johannite activity in town. If I suggested as such, I would have only cast even more suspicion on myself. I gave him two names, each with a purpose. Mr. Ainsworth, John was a servant for many years. He is a good man and a loyal follower of the Raven King. I believe he may be persuaded to join our cause, and there is no one better equipped to do so than yourself.”

Ainsworth raised an eyebrow. “Not even you? I would think that brotherly affection would go a long way to endearing our movement to him.”

“Nay, he is too mindful now of the danger. He spoke of last year’s shootings. If I had given my name, he would have refused out of principle to protect me, the foolish man. I don’t doubt he would try to convince me to leave off as well.”

“It is not foolish to want to protect those you love,” Milly said. Maggie looked at her in surprise, as she had been very quiet throughout the whole meeting, and she shrugged (a bad habit that Maggie thought Milly might have picked up from her). “I do not have many family members left to me, though I am sure any one of them would behave similarly. It is a perfectly rational reaction to learning your sister is a Johannite, though perhaps not the one that you might wish for.”

Maggie flashed her a small smile of gratitude.

“That explains Ainsworth,” said Hastings. “What about me?”

Maggie lifted her chin in a challenge. “John has many ways of getting what he wants. He is an adept trickster and manipulator and, at times, a bully. You, my dear Hastings, I trust above all of us, including myself, to stand up to his techniques.”

Goddard spoke for the first time since the meeting had begun a quarter of an hour ago. “What is the most desirable outcome of all this?”

“That my brother joins us,” Maggie said. “He would be a powerful ally in our fight. As I said, he knows how to get what he wants, and if his goals align with ours, well. So much the better for us.”

“And if he refuses?”

“That he leaves us alone, with as little knowledge of our activities as possible.”

“A tall order, to be sure.” Goddard sat back in his chair. “Well, chaps, I can’t say I envy your positions.”

“John is a busy man, what with the return of magic,” said Maggie. “He is a magician in his own right, and another magician accompanies him. I doubt we rank highly on his list of priorities. So long as you keep your heads and do not reveal anything about the rest of us, he will either join us, in which case we may trust in his loyalty for the rest of our lives, or he will leave to attend to matters elsewhere, and we will be free to operate as we see fit.”

Hastings sat down heavily and rested his head in his hands, the mirror of Maggie’s pose not long ago. “I still don’t like this. I wish you had sent a note.”

“The only people who could name us as Johannites are in this room, or are our wives,” Goddard said.

Milly coughed at this, but when Maggie turned to her, Milly waved her concern away. It appeared that her tea was hotter than she had expected, and she had scalded herself.

“As I was saying,” Goddard continued after the interruption subsided, “nobody in the town could identify us. The soldiers have been here for over a month and they’ve done nothing. The only way Mr. le Roy could know who we are is if Hastings or Ainsworth lets something slip. I, for one, trust them to hold their tongues.”

“Childermass,” Maggie corrected absently. She didn’t realize her mistake until all eyes at the table turned to her, and she blushed. “My brother’s name is not le Roy, it is Childermass.”

Milly frowned. “Why would his name—”

“A strange naming convention in the North,” Hastings interrupted. “Particularly popular among families who have followed the Raven King for generations. Occasionally children are named for the King, rather than take the patronym. I myself could never make heads nor tails of it when Miss le Roy told me about it, but I am given to understand it’s common enough in Yorkshire that it poses no difficulties.”

Maggie smiled gratefully at him, and he winked. “Yes, precisely,” she said. “And I agree, Mr. Goddard. So long as Mr. Hastings and Mr. Ainsworth do not provide my brother with anything he might use to discover our identities, we are quite safe, and he will soon be called away with more pressing concerns. He is a magician, not an investigator. He will turn his attention elsewhere if we can but wait long enough and keep our mouths shut.”

“You do not fear you have put us in the path of violence?” Hastings asked without raising his head from his hands.

Maggie scoffed. “John may use the implication of violence to get what he wants, but he will never initiate it. He is too clever. You can count on that, sirs.”

“Well.” Hastings looked up. “I cannot say I like the situation we are in, but you have allayed the worst of my fears.”

“You will speak with him, then? And you, Mr. Ainsworth, you will speak with him?”

“Aye,” Hastings said, and Ainsworth echoed him a moment later. “I will do my best to put him off, and I will not betray any information to him.”

Maggie winced slightly at the echoed accusation from earlier, but surely he meant nothing by it. He seemed to realize it a moment later, for he looked at her a little guiltily.

Milly pressed for a word-for-word account of Maggie and John’s conversation, which Maggie gave as accurately as she was able. She did not know how much to tell the company about the small, quiet magician who accompanied her brother, and she certainly would reveal nothing of what she suspected the nature of their relationship to be. Fortunately for her, John Segundus had not been much involved in the conversation, so she was able to sidestep most of the questions about him. “He was a gentleman, to be sure,” she answered honestly. “Rather shabby, if I may say so, and he said very little. John has never mentioned him to me in any of his letters, but if they travel together, then my brother must trust him. He does not seem like the troublemaking sort.”

“I suppose that is reassuring,” Milly said doubtfully. “I wonder why they travel together, if he is less of a rogue than your brother is.”

Maggie fought to keep her face straight. “I’m sure I couldn’t guess.”

“When may we expect a visit from Mr. Childermass?” asked Hastings.

“If I had to guess, I’d say he’d call on you here tomorrow, Mr. Ainsworth.” Maggie shot him a guilty smile. “I told him the name of the farm. As for when he might speak with you, Mr. Hastings, I cannot say. I told him you live near the church, nothing more, but I expect he will track you down within a few days.”

“Not exactly a comforting turn of phrase,” Hastings grumbled. “I don’t like being compared to prey.”

“Aye, fair enough. I’m sorry.”

“No matter.” Hastings sighed heavily. “Well, what’s done is done. We can only move forward and hope for the best. It’s getting late, and Ainsworth and I must be up early. Ladies, will you allow me to escort you back to town?”

Maggie and Milly acquiesced, and the gathering broke apart soon after that. The walk back to town was quiet, the only sounds being the faint hummings of insects and the plod of their boots over the cobblestone. Maggie did not mind the lack of conversation, for she had talked and listened and deflected and defended herself quite enough for one day, and she thought she deserved a reprieve. She bade quiet goodbyes to Hastings, then Goddard, then Milly, and finally she was as alone as a housemaid could ever be. And in the near-silence of her room, broken only by the faint murmurings of an ancient house around her and her roommate’s soft sleep-sighs, Maggie finally allowed herself to feel all the tumult she had been holding within herself since a letter from her brother had appeared in her pocket earlier that day.

Oh,  _ damn _ him for turning up as he did! To hardly keep in touch for years, even after securing her a position, to barely give away anything in the few letters he did send, only to show up at the most inopportune moment! And to demand information of her that could certainly damn her and her friends. It was hardly to be borne. Maggie wanted to scream into her pillow with frustration. The one thing she had ever done in her life to have a positive impact on the world, and naturally John Childermass must appear like a harbinger of bad fortune to ruin it. Oh, she so hoped she hadn’t smothered the little rebellion’s spark before it ever truly caught flame.

The terror and frustration and panic welled up inside her like a great wave that threatened to pull her under. For a moment, she worried she might drown in it. She took a deep breath, and on the exhale, she allowed the wave to pass over her and through her, and Maggie remained. There was no going back, only forward without fear. She took another breath, and another, and soon she was calm enough to sleep.


	8. The Rebel

**May 1817**

A letter arrived for Childermass from Marlowe of the Derby Magical Society the next morning. He was indisposed, the letter claimed, but would be sending another magician in his place who would arrive that very afternoon.

Childermass frowned at the letter, his toast and eggs forgotten for the moment. “Have you ever heard of this fellow Brandon?”

Segundus shook his head. “No, but that is no surprise. I have never met any of the Derby Magical Society.”

“But have you read anything he has published? Any articles or essays?”

“Perhaps he is a new member,” Segundus suggested.

“Aye,” said Childermass. His troubled expression remained, but he did not broach the subject for the rest of breakfast.

Vinculus was still in his room sleeping off the aftereffects of the wine Childermass had bought him, so Segundus and Childermass paid a visit to Ainsworth at Yew Tree Farm. They got directions easily enough from Mr. Fawlty (but only after Segundus turned the full force of his society accent on him once more) and arrived there before midday. As Segundus did not have a horse and was unsure about riding Brewer, and as Childermass refused to ride while Segundus walked, they both went on foot.

Yew Tree Farm had a cobbled-together look, as though the building of the farmhouse was a project that had been started and abandoned many times, and each time it was started up again, different materials were used and a different plan was followed. The stones were many shades of brown and grey, and the roof was not all one angle. In one place, the walls jutted out in odd directions. It gave the appearance of the room within turning askew so it lay out of alignment with its neighbors. A vegetable garden wrapped around the front of the house to one side, and the other side was taken up by a chicken pen. A great clucking arose from the pen as Segundus and Childermass approached the front door.

Childermass rapped sharply on the weathered wooden door, and it opened in short order. A harried-looking woman in a working-dress and apron stood in the doorway. A cap covered half of her dark hair, and her hands were reddened from scrubbing. “Yes?” she asked impatiently.

“We’re here to see Mr. Ainsworth,” said Childermass. “Could you tell us where he might be?”

The woman eyed them suspiciously. “What’s this about? Are you meeting him for tea?”

“No, madam,” Childermass said, his brow furrowed in confusion. “We do not have an appointment with him, for tea or otherwise.”

“What business do you have with him, then?”

“We just have a few questions for him.”

The woman crossed her arms. “What’s the nature of these questions?”

Segundus sensed a growing surliness in Childermass and decided he ought to step in. “We are historians,” he invented quickly. “We are writing an article about the history of this area, and we wanted to talk with Mr. Ainsworth about the legacy of Yew Tree Farm. I understand the Ainsworth family has held it for several generations…”

The woman sighed. “Very well. Peter’s in the barn out back.” She gave them another once-over and raised her eyebrows at what she saw. “Mind your step, gentlemen.”

Childermass smiled coldly at her. “I’m no gentleman.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode out of the yard and toward the barn. Segundus gave the woman a bobbing sort of half-bow and hurried after him.

The barn, at least, looked like it was constructed with a purpose in mind, though that purpose did not appear to be the housing of animals and farm equipment. Segundus was not entirely sure what its purpose was, but it seemed singularly unsuitable for use as a barn. It smelled of animals and dung, and the air inside clung damply to his face and hands. A wide pasture crisscrossed with wooden fences lay on the other side of the barn, and beyond that stretched a rolling sheep-field dotted with the white smudges of sheep. A man labored within, shoveling straw with a pitchfork. His height was hard to determine, bent over as he was, but he appeared to be at least a few inches taller than Segundus. His hair was a ruddy color, and he had the sort of muscles that farm-hands or dock-workers had— the sort that built up with repeated hard labor. He did not look much like a craftsman, but Segundus supposed that appearances could be deceiving. He abandoned his work, leaning on his pitchfork, as Childermass and Segundus approached.

“Peter Ainsworth?” Childermass asked. The man nodded curtly. “I am Childermass, and this is Mr. Segundus, of the Learned Society of York Magicians. We have some questions for you.”

Ainsworth squinted at them as though he could ascertain the truth of Childermass’s words if he looked hard enough. “What about?”

“We are making inquiries into the nature of the Johannite rebellion that is rumored to be brewing here,” said Childermass.

“And you decided to come to me?”

“I have it on good authority that you are involved with the Johannites.”

Ainsworth raised an eyebrow. “May I know the name of my accuser?”

“You may not,” Childermass said. “Firstly, what is the nature of your involvement?”

Ainsworth watched them with a wary eye for a moment. “Alright, I will admit it. Yes, I’m a Johannite. Why is that of interest to you?”

Segundus was somewhat taken aback by this proud proclamation. He had been given to understand that it would be more difficult to wrangle a confession, but Ainsworth had quite plainly declared it. Fortunately, Childermass seemed to know how to proceed.

“It is of interest to us because you believe you have England’s best interests at heart,” said Childermass. “And I disagree.”

“Agree or disagree as you like. You will not change my beliefs.”

“I’m not here to change your beliefs, only to persuade you to consider your actions.”

Ainsworth gave an encouraging sort of nod, smiling tolerantly, as though prompting Childermass to continue. Childermass hesitated for only a fraction of a second, but that was long enough to let Segundus know that Childermass felt as wrong-footed as he did.

“Most Johannites count themselves as followers of the Raven King. Do you as well, Mr. Ainsworth?”

Ainsworth nodded again. “I do. My mother was from the North, and I was raised on his stories and legends, moreso than most in the Midlands. I was glad to hear of his return.”

“I confess I was too. I have long hoped for his return, and for the return of magic. It has been the primary focus of my adult life.”

“I can understand that well enough,” Ainsworth said sympathetically.

“Aye,” Childermass agreed, “I believe we understand each other very well, up to a point. Where we differ is regarding what ought to be done now that he is here once more.”

“Indeed, sir. You believe that we ought to let the dust settle, as it were, don’t you?”

Childermass nodded once, sharply. “England is fragile, sir. There has been altogether too much turmoil in the past years, between other groups of Johannites, the war, and certainly the events of the past several months. The country cannot handle yet more disruption.”

“It’s precisely because of that fragility, as you put it, that we must act now. Don’t you see that we cannot wait?” Ainsworth heaved a deep sigh and leaned more heavily on his pitchfork. “We cannot allow the dust to settle, for it’ll do so in ways disfavorable to us— and not just us, but men like us in all corners of the country. We’re not so different than the unions in the South.”

“Do not cast me as some kind of union-buster,” Childermass growled. “I have no more love for such men than you do.”

“Aye, I believe that well enough,” said Ainsworth. “Even so, I believe we are at an impasse, Mr. Childermass. You cannot stop me through any method other than violence. But there’s a very simple way to solve our conundrum, y’see. I have heard your arguments against rebellion, but you have yet to hear mine in favor of it.”

Segundus looked anxiously between Childermass and Ainsworth. He felt very much outside of the conversation, scarcely more than a spectator. He rather resented being ignored, but at the same time, he was not sure he wanted to be part of it. He had no idea what he might say, and he overall felt entirely out of his depth. But Childermass was speaking again, and Segundus had no more time for such ruminations.

“I do not wish to hear them,” Childermass said, “for I already know what they are.”

“Forgive me, but I don’t think you do.” Ainsworth pulled a pocket-watch from within his jacket and studied it for a moment. “I’ve some time. Walk with me for a spell, sirs, if you would.”

Childermass glanced at Segundus, who nodded. They followed Ainsworth out of the barn and through the sheep-field beyond, treading a narrow, winding path that cut its way uncertainly through the grasses. A low stone wall covered in moss circled the field, and the path led to a wooden gate, which protested as Ainsworth swung it open. The path continued beyond the wall, following the curves and slopes of the land. After perhaps four or five minutes of walking, a small pond with a copse of trees to one side came into view.

“How charming,” Segundus said as they approached, then immediately cursed himself for his idiocy. Ainsworth wouldn’t want to hear how _charming_ the pond was, as though it were some sort of fashionable decoration.

But Ainsworth merely smiled in agreement and said, “especially so in the summer, when the frogs sing all night long.” He sat down beneath a tree and leaned back against its trunk, then tilted his head as though to invite Childermass and Segundus to sit as well. Childermass selected a spot where he might view Ainsworth in profile, and after some hesitation, Segundus followed suit. Silence settled over the copse, and Segundus wondered if he should break it.

As it turned out, Ainsworth was the first to speak. “I wonder if you know, I used to be a weaver at the textile mill?”

“Aye,” said Childermass. “You lost your job and moved back to your family’s farm.”

Ainsworth nodded. “It had been abandoned for some time. It took a great deal of work to restore it to its present condition.”

Segundus found his voice for the first time since the beginning of the conversation. “Is that why you became a Johannite? Losing your job?”

“Mmm. Partially. I like to think we would have ended up here either way, but I suppose we’ll never know.”

“You have said we don’t know your reasoning for rebellion,” said Childermass with a touch of impatience. “Enlighten us, if you would, sir.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Ainsworth’s face. “As you wish. We seek a better England; that much you know and also desire. But in order to do so, we must confront the injustices we all of us face every day, and we must refuse to submit to them any longer. That is what you don’t grasp, begging your pardon. It has been said of Johannites that we only want destruction and chaos, but that’s not true. We aren’t rebelling against modernity, or machinery, or whatever else the papers might say about us.”

“What injustices do you face?” Segundus asked. Childermass shot him an irritated look, and he flushed at his own impertinence. To ask a man to detail all the small ways in which the world injured him! Oh, he was making a mess of things.

Ainsworth did not seem put off, though— quite to the contrary, he seemed pleased. “Well, I lost my job with no notice, no protection, and no security. That is an injustice, isn’t it?”

Segundus, who had experienced something similar at the hands of the very man seated next to him, couldn’t help but agree.

“Working men are paid barely enough to survive,” Ainsworth continued. “And even so, we may be handed our walking papers on a whim, or because the factory owner no longer wishes to pay us when he can profit more by purchasing a machine. To lose one’s livelihood for the sake of lining another man’s pockets, to be told that your very life is worth less than what a machine can produce in a year… that, sirs, is an injustice too great to be borne.”

Segundus, against his better judgement, found himself greatly swayed by Ainsworth’s words. He called to mind all of the grievances that had been committed against him and could not deny that many of them had been at Norrell’s direction. Certainly stripping Segundus of his livelihood had not benefited Norrell in a monetary sense, but it had maintained Norrell’s monopoly on modern magic. In this, Segundus felt a sudden kinship with Ainsworth and a frustration at all the wrongs that could never be righted.

Childermass seemed to guess the direction of his thoughts, for he shot Segundus a look of warning. Segundus reined himself in. They had a mission, and that mission was not to join the Johannites— quite the opposite, in fact.

“I understand your intentions are good,” Childermass said. “Admirable, even. But men have been executed for Johannite activity. This rebellion can only end in death, most likely your own. Why keep going when it is futile?”

Ainsworth looked at him with a rather startling expression of pity. “Aye, it may be futile, and so may the next rebellion, and the next,” he said. “But our cause is right and just. It is loyalty to myself and my friends that drives me. It is the love of my family, and the Raven King, and the land he rules. _Futile_ you call it, and futile it may be, but I could not do otherwise.”

Segundus stared at him, mouth slightly agape. He could formulate no response to such a declaration. _Had anything ever driven me that way?_ he wondered. He did not think so. He was a small, common man with small, common interests. His goals in life were not ambitious. He wanted only the latitude to pursue his chosen career with freedom and study magic without being restricted by others’ ideas of who may or may not do so.

But was that not precisely what Ainsworth had described? Was it not an injustice that Segundus, and so many others, had been restricted from the study and practice of magic for so long, simply so that men such as Norrell could hoard all the knowledge to themselves? And had Segundus not rebelled against that restriction in his own way, time and time again over the years? First, he had asked the question that had set so much in motion, then he had made his ill-fated attempts to open Starecross as a school of magic, and even after that had failed, he had done his best to understand the enchantment upon Lady Pole that propped up Norrell’s career like a shifting sand bank beneath an unsteady pillar.

_Magic,_ Segundus thought. Magic was what drove him. Small and common he may be, but he had thrown himself against hegemonic injustice for love of magic. To remain passive, to forgo a fight even when he could not hope to win against Norrell’s political and social power, would be a betrayal of himself and his belief that magic ought to be for whomever wished to study it. Of course he fought. Of course he rebelled. He, like Ainsworth, could not do otherwise.

The church bells tolled then to signal the time was half-past eleven, and Ainsworth jumped like a startled cat. “Is that the time already?” he cried. “Excuse me gents, I must be going. I must see to the flock.” He stood and offered his hand to Childermass to hoist him to his feet. Childermass accepted after a moment of hesitation, and in turn lifted Segundus.

Ainsworth led them back up the winding path, and Childermass filled and lit his pipe as they walked. “I hope you understand why I am trying to put a stop to this,” he said around his pipe-stem. “My concern is for the stability of the nation. I might join your cause, if the circumstances were better.”

“There are no better circumstances,” said Ainsworth. “England is in so much turmoil now. If the atmosphere were more stable, changes would be more difficult.”

“I worry that there is too much turmoil, and any changes you push for will start a civil war between those who follow the Raven King and those who do not.”

Ainsworth was silent for a few moments. “I won’t deny that there are some of us who would gladly see the Raven King on his throne again. I am one of them. I don’t wish for unnecessary bloodshed, but I won’t remain silent when it is clear to me that I must act.”

Childermass sighed heavily at that. “Well, sir, you have made your case most admirably. I believe Mr. Segundus was very nearly ready to join himself.”

Segundus flushed at that, but Childermass’s tone was light and teasing, so he took no offense. They left Ainsworth to his chores not long after, and Childermass smoked with an air of thoughtfulness as they made their way down the lane back to town. “Well, that was a waste of a morning, I should think.”

Childermass grinned. “Not at all.”

“But we did not get any information from Mr. Ainsworth!”

“On the contrary, Mr. Segundus, we got a great deal of valuable information. We know more of his mind and his heart than we did an hour ago. That is no small matter.”

“I suppose,” Segundus said doubtfully.

A mizzling rain began to fall then, and Segundus was somewhat put out as he had not thought to bring an umbrella. They walked in near-silence through the drizzle, their boots squelching in mud and water running off their hats. The rain kicked up the smell of the moors, and the air grew greenly fragrant. It was peaceful, Segundus reflected, which was not a state of affairs that he often associated with Childermass. Until now, their encounters had almost all been combative in one form or another. In fact, the last time _Childermass_ and _peace_ had occurred simultaneously was that night at the minster in York, when snow had fallen around them as the world faded away. Though his memories of the moment were blurry (though due to magic or the passage of time, he couldn’t say) he suspected his current situation was similar. The world seemed less important. All that mattered, for the time, were Segundus and Childermass and the silver sheets of rain that surrounded them.

\---

**May 1817, earlier**

Milly Greene, governess of Duffield Hall, was quite accustomed to receiving urgent demands for her presence at all hours of the day and night. Even so, it was some surprise when Captain Oakes of the Derbyshire militia invited her for tea at her earliest convenience. This presented Milly with somewhat of a conundrum. Refusing his invitation would cast suspicion on her. After all, if she had nothing to hide, she had nothing to fear, did she not? But she had hidden what she should have perhaps revealed, and now it was too late.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. She wrote back with her acceptance and named a date. She cancelled lessons for that afternoon, citing pressing errands in town, and at the appointed hour, she made her way to the old militia barracks that currently housed Captain Oakes and his company.

Oakes had evidently been awaiting Milly’s arrival, for he met her just before the hedgerow that surrounded the barracks. He welcomed Milly with all the civility she could have expected. “What-ho, what-ho, Miss Greene!” he said as he bowed over her hand. His blonde curls spilled from beneath the brim of his hat and glinted in the sun.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Oakes,” said Milly. “It is very good to meet you again. I confess I was surprised when you wrote to me earlier this week. I had no idea you would be in Duffield.”

“Yes, it was rather a surprise to me as well! Colonel Forster recommended I take my company here for a bit of light training.” Oakes led Milly to a room that was clearly not intended for drinking tea with guests. The floor bore signs of being hastily scrubbed, and several rugs had been scattered across the room in no clear order (likely to hide the worst stains, Milly thought). The furniture was poorly matched, and there were no windows with a charming view. The walls held a haphazard assortment of portraits, many of which were crooked. Milly raised an eyebrow at Oakes, and he blushed. “It was the best I could do with short notice. It may further surprise you that the barracks have no proper drawing room.”

“That of all things does not surprise me, sir,” said Milly as she took a seat in one of the mismatched armchairs.

Oakes poured two cups of tea and settled into the armchair opposite Milly. “You know, of course, that I am the heir to your father’s— my uncle’s— title and estate.”

Milly did know. It was not a subject she enjoyed reflecting upon, and it had driven her into the words and ideas of writers such as Miss Wollstonecraft. (She was also an avid reader of novels and, despite Maggie’s teasing, felt no shame over it. It had not escaped her notice that she shared the situation of the heroines of Miss Austen’s most beloved novel, and it struck her as somewhat unfair that their only escape was through marriage. Milly had no such options.)

“You must also be aware of the…” Oakes hesitated, searching for words. “The financial situation of the estate.”

“I am aware, yes,” Milly said drily. “Do you think I am here by choice?”

Oakes blushed. “Of course not, Cousin Amelia. Er, Miss Greene. I… that was a foolish question. My apologies.”

“Why do you bring it up?”

Oakes did not seem to know what to do with his hands. First he wrapped them around his teacup, then folded them on the table, then fidgeted with the sleeve of his scarlet uniform. “My uncle has a textile mill in this town, as you are aware of. Obviously. Ahem. He has heard some rumors of a Johannite uprising that may be starting here soon. I am sure you can imagine that he would want to protect his financial interests.”

Despite the heat of the teacup in her hand, Milly suddenly felt very cold. “Rumors, you say? Where did he hear these rumors?”

Oakes shrugged as though he did not care very much about the answer. “From the foreman of the mill, I imagine.”

“Well then.” Milly settled her teacup back in its saucer. “He would know better than I.”

“Have you heard any rumors yourself?”

“Oh, one hears this and that. I do not doubt that if you walked down the street, any one of the people you see could tell you as much as the foreman told my father.” Milly fought to keep her tone light. Inside, she was panicking. She did not trust her cousin, and she felt keenly that she would need to be very careful to reveal just enough information to appear as though she concealed nothing, while not letting slip anything particularly important. It was a line as thin as a knife’s edge, and erring too far one way or the other could prove equally damning. Something Oakes had said clicked then. “Is that why you are here? To protect my father’s financial interests?”

Oakes blushed and stammered. “Of course not! Colonel Forster, the head of the regiment, ordered me to take my company here for— certain drills and training.”

_So we are both lying to one another,_ Milly thought. “A remarkable coincidence, you being stationed here in this town where my father owns a mill and where Johannite activity may be brewing.”

“Yes, remarkable.” Oakes did not meet her eyes.

Milly sighed. “Cousin, we both know it is no coincidence. It is quite plain to me that my father ordered you here to quell the rebellion before it could impact his mill. I only wonder how he convinced the colonel. A monetary bribe would be quite impossible due to his current financial situation, but perhaps a promise of future favor? As a baron, his word would hold sway over your colonel’s career in the militia.”

“I really could not say,” Oakes said, his gaze firmly fixed on his teacup.

“I do not wish to see my father’s estate fall any deeper into debt,” said Milly quietly. “I understand why you and he are doing this, but I would not have expected him to send the militia of all things to quell a rebellion that most around here have no interest in.”

Oakes furrowed his brow as he considered her words. “Most? So there definitely is a Johannite rebellion brewing?”

Milly’s breath caught in her chest. She felt as though she were walking along a path lined with snares and traps, and she would have to be very cautious indeed to avoid being caught in one. “If there is, it is a small one, and unlikely to have any great impact. It is my belief that these Johannites are not like those of the past. They have not shown any inclination toward wanton destruction. You will notice the lack of burnt buildings or smashed factories.”

“How can one have a rebellion without destruction?” Oakes asked with a frown.

Milly shrugged. “I would guess they desire a sort of social reorganization.”

Oakes’s eyes went wide in alarm. “Like in France?”

“No! No, certainly not!” said Milly. “Peacefully, and rationally. These men love England. They do not want to see her torn apart in a civil war or a bloody revolution.”

“You seem very well informed on what the Johannites do or do not want,” Oakes said, eyeing her narrowly.

Milly knew she had made a misstep; she felt a snare closing around her ankle. In defending the Johannites she had revealed too much. “I am only making guesses, and besides—” _carefully lifting her foot to draw it from the loop_ “—the great family here is not concerned, so why is my father so keen on using the militia in what is, if I may say so, a most underhanded way?” _Deflect, keep him talking. He is a fool and I can find a way out of this conversation easily enough._

“Underhanded!” Oakes exclaimed. “Why, this is precisely what the militia is for, to keep peace in England!”

“And what methods did my father instruct you to use in your duties as a peacekeeper?”

Oakes flushed and looked rather miserable. “I do not want to imprison anyone or bring anyone to trial.”

“That is not an answer to my question,” Milly said. But then again, maybe it was. She sighed. “Cousin, if you arrest a man on no grounds other than the suspicion of being a Johannite, you may very well incite the destruction you seek to prevent.”

“I will do what I must to protect my uncle’s estate, which will be mine someday.”

Oh, yes, that sounded like something her father would say. Milly suspected the baron had a great deal of influence over Captain Oakes. It would not do to needle him until he put his hackles up and snapped at her. She carefully guided the topic of conversation to safer waters: Oakes’s parents, whom she had met only a few times; his education; his favored pastimes and hobbies. She learned very little about him she did not already know or could guess: his mother was dead and his father was a poor country solicitor; his education was middling but provided him with few prospects other than enrollment in the militia; he enjoyed riding, cards, and billiards, but not dice. He had never heard of Miss Wollstonecraft.

Mundane though this conversation was, it gave Milly a chance to think. She had one foot on two entirely separate paths: that of an impoverished baron’s daughter, and that of a Johannite. Before, she had not thought these paths would diverge so very much, but now she was beginning to realize that Oakes’s arrival and her father’s meddling may force her to choose one path and disavow the other. She did not want to choose between her loyalty to her friends and her loyalty to her family— and by choosing one, she would surely lose the other forever.

Perhaps she would not have to choose, though. Perhaps she could find a way to ensure the paths would run parallel so she might continue to walk both.

“Mr. Oakes,” Milly said, interrupting the captain’s long-winded story of a particularly raucous ball in Wirksworth. “You seem like a man not much inclined to violence.”

“Well, one must be comfortable with a certain level of violence if one is to be successful in the militia, Miss Greene. At any time we may be called upon to defend our country.”

Milly doubted Oakes had ever seen any violence more serious than a heated quarrel over cards. “Nevertheless, I am certain that my father may be appeased in some way that does not involve jailing or executing innocent men. That would be the most straightforward solution, would it not?”

“What exactly are you proposing?” Oakes asked, his eyes wide.

“We work together, Mr. Oakes, to make sure that my father’s mill is not burned, and you shall have no cause to make any arrests.” Milly smiled her most charming smile at him; it had the desired effect. Oakes blinked at her a little blearily and smiled back.

“That sounds ideal, Miss Greene,” he said. He cleared his throat and glanced down at his tea as though collecting himself once more. “Despite my rather boorish conduct earlier, I did not invite you here only to interrogate you about the Johannites. I have another topic in mind. Please forgive me for approaching it so— ahem, so directly. You see, I do not wish to put you from your childhood home. You will always have a place there, even if you do not accept my— my suggestion.”

Milly thought she had an inkling where this speech was going, though she prayed for some misunderstanding. She did not know whether to laugh or cry. It seemed that she might possibly have a way out of her situation, and it was the same one offered to Miss Eliza Bennett in Miss Austen’s novel. Would she accept where Lizzie had refused? Were her assumptions even correct? She fought to keep her breathing steady and a smile on her face.

“My suggestion,” Oakes carried on, unaware of Milly’s state, “is that we are… Well. Married, so to speak. No, not so to speak. In truth. Married, in truth. Oh, this is not a very good proposal, is it? I do beg your pardon. I only mean to say that you could still be the mistress of my uncle’s estate, even though I am to be its master.”

Milly took pity on him, even as her heart sank. “You flatter me, sir. It is a very kind proposal. You put my own happiness ahead of yours.”

“I think I should be very happy,” Oakes protested.

“I only meant that it is a generous and selfless gesture,” said Milly. “I hope you understand, I cannot give you an answer now. Your proposal has come as a great surprise to me, but I promise I will give it careful consideration.”

A slight frown turned down the corners of Oakes’s mouth. “Do you have another beau?”

“No, sir. Few men would be happy with a wife such as myself.”

“A governess?”

Milly smiled ruefully.

“Well, that is no matter,” Oakes decided. “For as we agreed, we are going to protect my uncle’s mill, and soon his debts will be paid off.”

Milly wished she shared his enthusiasm; rather than ensuring the paths ran parallel, she got the sense that she had only made them more likely to diverge sometime in the future. “Certainly, Mr. Oakes,” she said, her tone carefully light. “Thank you for the tea. You have certainly given me much to consider. This has been a most diverting visit, but I fear I must go soon. The young mistresses have afternoon lessons that I must prepare for.”

Oakes stood and laid her saucer and cup back on the tea-tray. “You will think about it?”

Milly smiled in a way that she hoped was reassuring. “I will.”

She thought about it. She thought about it while Oakes escorted her close to the village (whereupon she was obliged to make her excuses and flee, in case anyone saw her and Oakes and started a rumor); she thought about it as she took a rambling footpath north out of town that ran along the banks of the river; and she thought about it as she settled down on a convenient boulder and pulled her shoes off so she might dip her feet in the cool rushing water.

It was a convenient solution, she had to admit. All she had wanted was to inherit her father’s title and estate, but the entail made that quite impossible. _Marrying the heir was almost as good as inheriting herself,_ said a very practical voice in her head that reminded her of Maggie. Oh, Maggie— Maggie was the reason she hesitated. She knew she would disappoint her friend if she left, and explanations would be needed. How awkward it would be to tell Maggie, after all this time, that she, Milly, was the daughter of the Baron of Segrave! Maggie had never asked, and Milly was too embarrassed at her situation to offer the information freely. No, far better to be thought of as a respectable, middle-class woman from a respectable, middle-class family, not the daughter of a failing house that was about to be drowned in debt and ruined.

Milly groaned when she realized that Hastings had presented her with the perfect opportunity to admit her heritage, and she had lied. _Oh, why had she lied? What had she been trying to protect?_ Why had she thought it would matter to Hastings, whether she was related to the mill-owner, the baron, or not? It was certainly too late to confess now. They would suspect her of being a spy, and she would not be welcome at any of their meetings, and she did so want to be part of the little group of Johannites. They wanted a better world, a more just world. Certainly, they had only a fool’s hope at succeeding, but at least they intended to try. That was more than could be said for her father. He was interested in little other than his estate. 

Not all of what she had said to the Johannites had been a lie, she told herself. In fact, almost none of it was. She really did believe in the rights of women, and the Raven King truly was a persuasive figure. There was only the small matter of his followers being all too willing to start a revolution and possibly a civil war. Milly did not want a revolution, but neither did she want to give up her principles entirely— and she had to admit that her principles aligned much more closely with those of the Johannites than those of her father.

So where did that leave her? If she allowed Oakes to investigate freely, he would no doubt find something to put the Johannites on trial— and if her father had anything to say about it, it would not be a fair one. The baron was ruthless when protecting his financial interests. Perhaps Maggie had the right idea after all. Perhaps Milly would be able to stall Captain Oakes and his militia long enough to convince her father that the mill was in no danger. She would have to feed him just enough information to convince him that the Johannites were no true threat, and eventually Oakes’s genuine militia duties would call him elsewhere. And in the meantime, she would do her best to dampen the revolutionary spirit of the more impetuous Johannites, so they presented no threat to her father’s mill. It might work.

Milly scoffed and aimed a splash of water at a leaf that drifted in the center of the river. And a snowball might survive a day in Hell.

The others could never know of her deceit, though, or she would be alone and friendless. Milly could hardly bear to think of how Maggie would look— betrayed and furious, and her heart hurt at the thought. Her mind spun round and round, churning like the water, but she had no such cool clarity. She felt as though her lies were stacking up, one on top of the other like a house of cards, and the slightest word out of place would send the whole thing tumbling down.

_No way to go but forward,_ said Maggie’s voice again. Dear, practical Maggie. She must never learn the truth of Milly’s duplicity, or she would never forgive her. The voice was right, though— Milly must continue forward upon her two paths and step very carefully so she might never have to choose.


	9. A Blighted Trunk Upon A Cursed Root

**May 1817**

Childermass and Segundus had little time to dry themselves off by a pleasant fire. Brandon arrived from Derby just after luncheon, and Childermass was obliged to fetch Vinculus and give him a quick wash so most of his lettering was legible. In the meantime, Segundus entertained Brandon in a tea house he had spotted on the way back from Yew Tree Farm. The place was charming, Segundus thought. The blue and white wallpaper reminded him of Mrs. Sparrow’s parlor, and the china services were painted with bouquets of wildflowers.

“I hope you had a pleasant journey,” Segundus said over the quiet chatter of the tea house’s patrons.

“Quite,” said Brandon. He had red hair and an accent that Segundus couldn’t place but certainly wasn’t Derbyshire. “It was good of you to invite me. Well, you invited Marlowe, but it was good of you to accept me.”

“Of course,” Segundus said. “We are delighted to make your acquaintance.” Brandon’s clothing was strange, he noticed. It was not only that the cut was out of fashion, which Segundus could hardly fault him for. But Segundus was certain that such a style had never been _in_ fashion. He had never seen a suit quite like Brandon’s, and he wondered where the strange magician had purchased it. The jacket lapel was too narrow, and the collar of his green shirt barely covered his neck. He wasn’t even wearing a proper necktie, only a scrap of what looked like green silk tied in an odd manner around his neck. Segundus set his cup back in its saucer. “You said you are from Derby?”

Brandon smiled at that. “Not exactly. I am attached to the Derby Magical Society, though.”

“Where are you from, then, if you do not mind my asking?” asked Segundus.

A wistful look traced the corners of Brandon’s eyes and his easy smile. There was something bittersweet about it, Segundus thought, and maybe a bit of anger underneath. It put Segundus ill at ease. “Here and there. It is hard for me to rightly call any one place my home.”

Segundus nodded. “I understand that. I have found a home for myself in Yorkshire, though. Perhaps you will find one as well, someday.”

“You know, I think I just might have,” Brandon said. He took a sip of his tea and added another spoonful of sugar.

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“So, do you have a particular area of magical study?” Segundus ventured when it became apparent that he would have to lead this conversation if it were to occur at all.

Brandon’s green eyes turned hard and glittering. “Madness,” he said, his voice low. “And its relationship with power.”

“Are you quite sure you want to pursue such a topic, sir?” said Segundus with no small amount of alarm. “Mr. Strange walked that path not long ago, and it turned out rather ill for everyone involved.”

“Strange pursued madness as a goal, did he not?” Brandon said. “I do not intend to go mad. I only wish to study why madness makes a magician more powerful.”

“It is a dangerous topic, sir,” Segundus warned. “Mr. Strange did not intend to go mad either, not at first.”

“There are other lands— other _countries_ — where madness is viewed differently.” Brandon’s tone took on a touch of impatience. “Just because England takes a backward view of things doesn’t mean that everywhere does.”

Segundus had no idea how to respond to that. England did not treat her madmen kindly, he knew. But _backward?_ He could hardly think of a more forward-facing country. He was saved from having to formulate a reply, however, by the arrival of Childermass and Vinculus. “Ah,” he said. “Mr. Brandon, may I present Mr. Childermass and Mr. Vinculus.”

Brandon stood to shake their hands, and Segundus poured more tea. Some spark of ill will seemed to jump between Brandon and Childermass as their hands touched, though Segundus couldn’t say why. Childermass and Vinculus looked as out-of-place in the fine tea house as they had in Mrs. Sparrow’s little parlor, but Childermass at least conducted himself with gracious enough manners. Vinculus, Segundus thought, was a lost cause.

“Tell me, Mr. Brandon,” Childermass said as he sipped his tea (very dark, no sugar, Segundus noted in the back of his mind). “Why did Mr. Marlowe recommend you to us?”

“He is unwell,” said Brandon with a shrug. “He told me he mentioned it in his letter to you.”

Childermass inclined his head. “My best wishes for his quick recovery. But why you, particularly?”

Brandon paused in the stirring of his tea. “I suppose because I have some skill with languages. Is that not the work at hand, sirs? The translating of the King’s Letters into plain English?”

“It is, aye,” said Childermass. “But you must forgive me, sir—” Brandon’s eyes narrowed at this. _Must I?_ he seemed to be asking, though he gave no voice to his thoughts. “—for my caution. I had never heard of your name before it occurred in Mr. Marlowe’s letter. I would prefer not to entrust the King’s Letters to an unknown magician.”

“The King’s Letters can speak for hisself well enough,” Vinculus interrupted. “And I have no objection to Mr. Brandon reading me for a few days, or however long it takes you fellows to conclude your business here.” He shot a dirty look at Childermass. “Perhaps he will be more considerate of my private body than certain other readers have been in the past.”

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“Well, I am glad that’s settled,” said Segundus. “Where will you be staying, Mr. Brandon?”

“The Bridge Inn, I expect,” Brandon said carelessly. “How is it?”

Segundus shrugged. “Pleasant enough, but the owner is a snob.”

“I can deal with those types easily enough,” said Brandon. “Well, I don’t want to keep you gentlemen from your business much longer. Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Segundus. I should like to begin my study of Mr. Vinculus this afternoon, if it’s quite agreeable to you, sirs.”

Segundus nodded, and Childermass followed suit after a moment. The short remainder of the meeting was cordial yet strained, which seemed to put Childermass and Vinculus ill at ease. Segundus, however, felt more in his element than he had been since he left York. He had spent many a tea-time in the company of some unpleasant relation or another, and he was practiced in the art of smoothing over awkwardness between two or more parties who experienced a mutual dislike. Segundus settled the bill not long afterward, quietly waving away Childermass’s attempts to pay. Brandon escorted Vinculus back to the Bridge Inn with the intent of beginning his study, and Segundus and Childermass were left to their own devices.

The morning rain had stopped, though the clouds threatened to start it up again at a moment’s notice. Childermass puffed at his pipe as they walked, rather aimlessly, Segundus thought, through the small town. Several times, Segundus wondered where Childermass guided them— a particular shop, perhaps, or the church, if they were to pay a visit to Hastings. But every time they approached something that might appropriately be called a _destination,_ Childermass turned their steps away. Segundus didn’t mind so much. The town was pleasant to walk through; he admired its gnarled old trees and the bright flowers that spilled from window-boxes like colorful wards against gloom. But after the third such occurrence, he wondered aloud if they might be headed somewhere in particular.

“No, Mr. Segundus,” Childermass said, breathing smoke into the sky. “We are newcomers here, and they know us to be magicians. That’s two marks against us. We must become commonplace sights, else every door in this town will be slammed in our faces.”

“Ah!” said Segundus. “We must avoid the appearance of being a threat.”

“You have the right of it.” Childermass smiled around his pipe.

“Will it be very hard for you, sir,” Segundus said, “to give up all pretense at being mysterious and secretive?”

Childermass looked at him for a second, then laughed so hard he startled a flock of birds into flight. “Ah, Mr. Segundus,” he said, still laughing. “How you wound me. I do not _pretend_ to be mysterious.”

Feeling emboldened by Childermass’s laughter, Segundus trailed his hand down the length of Childermass’s forearm. It was a perfectly innocent touch; he might have been brushing a piece of lint off the other man’s coat, but Childermass’s shoulders still stiffened. “Might you call me _John,”_ he said shyly. “When it is the two of us?”

Childermass looked at him for a long moment, his face inscrutable. _He spoke rightly before_ , Segundus thought, dazed. _He does not pretend to be mysterious._ “Aye,” said Childermass. “And you might do the same.”

“Yes, of course.” Segundus swallowed. “John.” Childermass’s gaze dropped to his mouth as he spoke the name they shared, and he reflexively licked his lips. Childermass followed the motion intently, looking for all the world as though he might grab Segundus right there and kiss him. In the moment, Segundus thought that he would have let Childermass do as he pleased.

A bell above a shop-door rang quite loudly nearby, and Segundus jumped. He realized then that they had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. A woman trailing three children skirted around them, followed by a pair of shoppers with baskets full of produce. “We ought to keep moving,” he said faintly.

Childermass’s mouth curved into a slow smile. “Aye,” he agreed, and they did.

They walked for some time in silence, close enough for their jacket-sleeves to brush or for the backs of their hands to accidentally bump together. These tiny points of contact which would have gone almost unnoticed if they had been with anyone else instead felt electric to Segundus, as though a fine web of lightning stretched over Childermass’s skin and occasionally leapt out to shock whomever might dare touch him.

“Should we talk to Hastings?” Segundus asked after a few minutes. He kept his tone light, though his breath hitched whenever he felt the sparks of sensation that jumped between Childermass’s hand and his own.

Childermass frowned. He had a great deal of different frowns, Segundus was beginning to realize. He had one for when he was cross, one for when he was concentrating, one for when he read his cards, one for times like this when he watched the horizon and dozens of plans unfurled and spun around his mind, and surely many more besides. Segundus was determined to learn them all. “Tomorrow,” Childermass said eventually. “Ainsworth will go to him soon, if he has not already. It would do us no good to swoop in like vultures and confirm every suspicion the town has of us.”

Segundus turned that over in his mind a few times. “Should we not go as soon as possible?” he asked. That was how detectives and policemen behaved in the novels he read; having never been part of any sort of police investigation, he had no idea how things were done.

Childermass smiled crookedly at him as though he knew the direction of Segundus’s thoughts. “No. It will keep. We would be better served by ensuring the good townsfolk—” (this he said with no small amount of irony) “—have a favorable impression of us.”

Segundus nodded, and they walked for a time in silence. He wondered again why exactly Childermass had brought him to Duffield. He had very little experience with the sort of investigation they were conducting. Childermass had praised his magical ability, but he hadn’t been called upon to perform any magic to assist their inquiries. It had been Childermass to contact Maggie and the absent Marlowe, Childermass who led the questioning of Ainsworth, and Childermass who knew how to manage public opinion. What had Segundus done? _Acted like a dandy to impress an elitist innkeeper_ , his mind supplied. _Held polite conversation with a magician in a strange suit._ It was not such a large contribution. Segundus felt a gloom descend upon him, perhaps fuelled by the drizzle that had started up once more. At least his umbrella would keep the rain off him, though it was no defense against a bad mood.

“Come along, John,” Childermass said as they rounded a corner. They had arrived back at the main street of Duffield. Brick and wooden storefronts lined the cobbled street, and the smell of warm bread wafted from a nearby bakery. “I know something that will cheer you up.”

Segundus barely had time to wonder how Childermass had known he was in need of cheering before Childermass grabbed his elbow and whisked him away down a tiny, dark alley that Segundus hadn’t even noticed. It somehow gave the impression of a fairy-road, though Segundus didn’t think he had seen an alley that looked _less_ like a fairy-road in his life. It was rather dirty and smelled dank, a far cry from the clean-swept and bright main street that it sprang off from. But it had a contemplative and mysterious air, or possibly the air of a path that leads to somewhere contemplative and mysterious and so takes on some of that place’s qualities in anticipation. The walls narrowed even further as they wound their way deeper between the buildings, and Segundus was obliged to close his umbrella.

Just when Segundus was beginning to feel faint tendrils of claustrophobia clutching at his heart and lungs, the alley opened up rather abruptly into a tiny stone courtyard. A blackened tree, its branches bare despite the season, stood in the middle, surrounded by clusters of lily-of-the-valley that bobbed and danced in the rain. The walls of the courtyard looked rough and unfinished; they were merely the back-ends and the side-ends of buildings, built for function instead of beauty. There was only one doorway, but it was so choked with vines of ivy that Segundus supposed it hadn’t been opened in years.

Segundus stepped in slowly, feeling once more that he had left England and now stood in Faerie. He crossed the courtyard; his steps felt slow and gliding, as though he were in some dream-like state from which he couldn’t awaken. He approached the bare tree. Upon closer inspection, he discovered that it was made of stone. Had it been petrified, then? Or had it been carved from a great boulder? Or perhaps it had been grown by magic, much like the vines in the York minster so many years ago? He turned to see Childermass leaning against a nearby wall, watching him with a small slanted smile. “It is made of stone,” he said rather unnecessarily.

“It is,” Childermass agreed, and his smile broadened.

“How did it come to be this way?”

Childermass hummed. “I would have thought you have had quite enough of fairy-stories to last you a lifetime. But yes, alright, I will tell you.” He sighed and seemed to collect his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice had a subtle, almost rhythmic cadence to it, as though he were reciting a poem with an otherworldly structure that Segundus couldn’t follow. “In the year 1247, the Raven King rode alone over the land on a mission only he himself knew. He stopped for a time in the shade of an apple tree, for the July heat wearied him. After he took his rest, he decided that he’d like nothing more than a sweet apple to restore his strength for the journey ahead. He reached into the branches of the apple tree and fetched down the first apple he saw. But when he bit into it, he found that it was hard and sour. ‘Cursed tree!’ cried he. ‘Never more shall you bear fruit, nor flowers, nor shall your branches be crowned with leaves, but forever shall you stand alone in your treason, for you have shown spite to your King who commands you.’ The Raven King rode away to pursue his mission and thought no more about the apple tree, whose greatest crime was to obey the laws of nature and the cycle of the seasons.”

Segundus frowned. “That was rather unkind.”

“John Uskglass has never been known for his kindness,” Childermass said, amused.

Segundus turned back to the tree and ran a hand along the trunk, marvelling at the texture. It felt almost like stone and almost like bark, though not quite enough of either to be entirely natural. He tilted his head up to see the sky, heedless of the rain, and for a brief second imagined that he could see the branches moving overhead. _That was quite impossible, of course,_ he told himself. He closed his eyes and inhaled, and the sweet fragrance of the lilies flooded his senses with the effect of a restorative broth.

“I knew you would like this place,” Childermass said from where he stood against the courtyard wall.

Segundus turned to him again. He was still smiling that same crooked smile, and Segundus crossed the two or three paces that separated them in a rush. He sensed something meaningful had occurred when Childermass brought him here and told him the story of the Raven King, something with a scope and shape he could only guess at. He was determined to kiss the smile (endearing as it was) off Childermass’s face, and so he did. He pressed their lips together gently, almost demure— this did not feel like the appropriate time for the passionate kisses they shared during their less chaste encounters. This was the time for the tender meeting of lips (Childermass’s tasted like rain) and hands (cold against the back of Segundus’s neck) and arms entwined in a sodden embrace.

Childermass, apparently, disagreed. He allowed this treatment for no more than a few moments before grabbing Segundus by the shoulder and hip and spinning him about. Segundus gasped as his back hit the wall, and his hat tumbled from his head to the wet and muddy cobblestones below. He paid it little mind; Childermass’s lips were on his once more, and he had no attention to devote to trivial matters such as the ruination of his best hat.

Events were progressing rather quickly, Segundus thought, though he didn’t mind too much. That is, he didn’t mind until Childermass started fumbling with the ties on his breeches, and Segundus swatted his hands away. “Not here,” he hissed.

Childermass raised his head from where he had pressed it against the crook of Segundus’s neck, a slightly dazed look on his face. “The stones won’t tell.”

“We are in _public,_ sir!” Segundus set about trying to straighten his clothing, though his efforts were hampered by Childermass’s (admittedly pleasant) proximity.

“Only technically.” Childermass seemed to grow less dazed and more amused as he watched Segundus’s attempts to set himself aright. “I’d have you here against that wall, if you were amenable.”

The idea was not as disagreeable as he would have thought, Segundus found. He flushed bright red and said, “I am _not_ amenable.” It came out less firm and more quavery than he had intended. “You will oblige me by waiting until we are in a more favorable location!”

“Like the back of Mr. Honeyfoot’s coach?” Childermass suggested. He did not seem angry at being rebuffed; in fact, he seemed to grow even more amused.

“That was— that was an entirely different circumstance!” said Segundus indignantly. He took several deep breaths of lily-scented air and tried to slow the racing of his heart.

Childermass raised an eyebrow. “Yes?” he asked, shooting Segundus a sarcastic look.

Segundus got the impression that Childermass wouldn’t believe a word of his justification, which he thought rather unfair. “Yes!” he insisted anyway.

Childermass shrugged at that and stepped away. “Suit yourself, sir.” He put his back against the wall next to Segundus (where they were afforded a small measure of protection from the rain) and retrieved his pipe from the pocket of his jacket. All of his attention seemed to be bent toward the packing and lighting of the pipe, as though Segundus was of no more consequence to him than the ivy or the lilies.

Segundus felt rather wrong-footed by this. He scrambled to pick up his hat and replace it on his head, but afterward, he wasn’t sure whether he ought to stand so he and Childermass might speak or if Childermass would prefer a stretch of quiet to enjoy his pipe. He settled for leaning tentatively against the wall once more, barely an inch from Childermass, though he could feel the rain soaking through his shirt. As soon as that problem was solved, however, he found that he didn’t know what to do with his hands. His jacket pockets were not positioned so he might keep his hands in them, and he had nothing to occupy them. He settled for clasping them in front of his chest, but that felt rather unnatural and strange; letting them dangle alongside his body was no better.

Childermass sighed and shifted slightly so the length of his arm was pressed up against Segundus’s own. “What is it now?”

“Nothing, John,” Segundus said. As he spoke the words, he found them to be true. The restless feeling faded like mist beneath the sun. He smiled at Childermass and received a smile in return. “I do quite like this place. You were right.”

Childermass attempted to blow a smoke ring, though the effect was rather ruined by the drizzle. “I usually am.”

Segundus would have been content to stand in the stone courtyard for the entire afternoon. As it was, the rain turned from a drizzle to a downpour, and Segundus shivered as his jacket slowly soaked through. He said nothing, though; he felt as if he had been granted a reprieve from the outside world and all its demands, and he did not wish to go back. He would gladly sacrifice personal comfort for a few more minutes of peace.

However, it was not to last. Childermass shot a glance of consternation at the sky and packed up his pipe. “We ought to be going, John,” he said. “But if you like it so much, we may come back.”

“I feel rather bad for the tree,” said Segundus wistfully. “But yes, you are right.”

Childermass quirked an eyebrow at him. “You have always been uncommonly soft for the strangest things,” he said. “I doubt the tree pays you any mind.”

“No, I mean—” Segundus caught Childermass’s gaze. He could not adequately explain what he meant, not even to himself. “It is a very cruel thing to be punished for following one’s nature,” he began. But that wasn’t quite what he meant to say. He sighed in consternation. “Please do not think I pity myself! It is not myself I am concerned for, but the Johannites.”

Childermass blinked at that as though Segundus had said something unexpected and rather startling. “Now you have made me curious. You must explain yourself, perhaps on the way back to the inn. I don’t want to leave Vinculus alone with Brandon for too long today.”

Segundus nodded, and he followed Childermass back through the narrow and dirty alley. The journey back was almost, but not entirely, a reversal of the sensations Segundus had experienced when Childermass first led him down this path. The courtyard no longer seemed to be a separate world, only accessible by a fairy-path. It was as though England had expanded to accommodate it and found that it fit quite comfortably within her borders. The route back to the main street took less time than Segundus had remembered, and he wondered if Childermass had deliberately taken him on a detour in order to build up the suspense. He decided not to ask, though. If so, it would spoil the effect, and if not, he risked looking rather foolish.

They stepped back out onto the main street, and Segundus opened his umbrella, though he was already so soaked through that he wasn’t sure what difference it made. He offered Childermass the use of his umbrella as well, but Childermass just shrugged.

“I do not mind the rain so much,” he said. “But I am very curious to hear why the stone tree reminds you keenly enough of the Johannites to spark your pity.”

“Ah,” Segundus said, “yes.” He had meant to spend the short walk through the alley marshalling his thoughts into order, but now he found that the initial connexions his mind had made so easily faded from his grasp; like dreams, the harder he tried to hold onto them, the faster they slipped away. “Well. I suppose it is because they are all… beings of the land, in a manner of speaking.”

Childermass looked as though he were trying very hard not to laugh. “Aye,” he said. “That is true enough, I’d wager.”

“And their— _natural disposition_ , shall we say— is to carry on according to the circumstances of the environment. The craftsman shall practice his craft, and the apple tree shall produce apples in the appropriate season, and so forth.”

“That is generally how such things go.”

“But if the environment changes, or if some new element is introduced that the— the _being,_ whatever it may be, cannot account for, I think it rather harsh that it must suffer punishment for simply following its nature.”

“Are you sure you are not talking about yourself, John?” Childermass asked, his voice gentle.

Something about his tone irritated Segundus. “Well, if I am, then I am talking about you as well, and I do not very much think you want my pity.”

At that, Childermass gave up any pretense of hiding his mirth. “You are correct.” His laughter faded after a moment. “I understand your sympathy for the tree well enough. But the Johannites are _men._ They are not passive creatures who can do nowt but follow their natural dispositions, as you put it.”

“Does that mean they do not deserve our pity?” Segundus said with a frown.

“It means,” said Childermass, “that we can offer them many things more useful than pity.”

\---

In stark contrast to their aimless wandering earlier, the walk back to the inn was brisk and businesslike. Segundus didn’t mind. He had been happy to walk about the town with Childermass as though it were something they did regularly, as though they were _friends,_ rather than whatever it was they were (and he still hadn’t quite worked that out either). Even so, the increasingly bad weather drove him to hurry through the rainy streets, though it meant the end of a very pleasant diversion.

Childermass slowed his steps when they were just a few blocks away from the inn, and Segundus matched his pace, looking at him curiously. “What did you make of Ainsworth, this morning?” Childermass asked.

Segundus frowned. “He was the angry one, according to the cards, wasn’t he?”

“Aye,” said Childermass.

“His manner was very calm for an angry man,” Segundus said.

Childermass made a sound of not-quite-agreement. “He sounded sincere when he brought up the _cause._ That’s not something one hears often from fair-weather revolutionaries, so to speak.”

“He and Hastings are the true believers, if you trust Maggie’s word,” said Segundus.

“I do,” Childermass said. Segundus looked at him, but he kept his eyes fixed on the inn as they approached. “We will visit Hastings tomorrow. We must avoid the appearance of hounding these men, but waiting too long will not do.”

Segundus nodded. “Perhaps we may try to decipher the King’s Letters for the rest of the afternoon. If Vinculus will consent to it, of course.”

Childermass smirked in a manner that suggested that he did not much care whether Vinculus consented to be read or not. He held the inn’s door open for Segundus, and again a flash of surprise crossed his face when Segundus thanked him.

Though the hour was too late for luncheon and too early for tea, the public house that formed the first floor of the inn was crowded with patrons seeking shelter from the rain. Segundus scanned the room, but Brandon and Vinculus didn’t appear to be present.

Childermass evidently reached the same conclusion. “Why, if that squirrelly little—” he began.

Segundus laid a hand on his arm, and his stream of invective stopped in its tracks. He strode across the room, Childermass following close behind. Blessedly, the young, sandy-haired man at the front desk was not Mr. Fawlty; if his livery had not already marked him as a concierge, his manner surely would have. “We’re looking for our associates,” Segundus said to the concierge. “Their names are Brandon and Vinculus.”

“Yes, sir,” the concierge said. “They’ve taken a private parlor for the afternoon. It’s just through there.” He indicated a door to his right.

Segundus reached the door before Childermass could and ushered him through first. Childermass shot him a very complicated look as he passed: part mirth and part confusion with an underlying caution.

The small parlor beyond had a number of fine features, including green-papered walls, a warmly crackling fire, and a window that looked out onto a charming view of the river. Segundus had little time to admire the room, however, as his attention was immediately taken up by the sight of Vinculus stripped almost naked and laid out on his back on the long dining table. Brandon had taken off his jacket and stood in his waistcoat with his shirtsleeves rolled up, poring over Vinculus with his nose barely a few inches above the blue-inked skin. Vinculus, for his part, appeared to be asleep amid several stacks of books. Segundus assumed they belonged to Brandon, as he had never seen them before. Papers covered in thin, spidery writing lay scattered across the dining table and most of the chairs; several sheets had fallen to the floor.

Segundus picked one of these up, marvelling at its fine texture. Childermass frowned at it then at Brandon, who had barely glanced up as they entered the room. “How goes the translation?” Segundus asked.

“Good, good,” Brandon replied without looking up from his work. “Can either of you claim familiarity with the Pictish tongue?”

Segundus and Childermass looked at each other. “Not I,” said Childermass.

“What about Old Welsh?”

“I do not think there is a person alive who can speak Old Welsh,” said Segundus.

Brandon made a voice of displeasure. “I had not realized you had set me an impossible task, Mr. Childermass.”

A thoughtful look stole across Childermass’s face. “Pictish and Old Welsh, you say?” Brandon made no reply. “I believe you have identified some of the languages that form the roots of the Sidhe tongue.”

That caught Brandon’s attention. “Sidhe?” he repeated. “I cannot hope you have any sort of Rosetta Stone, or the like?”

“Alas, no,” Childermass said with a dry laugh. “Or our task would be much easier. And the last known copy of _De Tractatu Magicarum Linguarum_ was lost just a few months ago.” Brandon frowned at that but made no reply.

Vinculus awoke with an odd sort of snort. “No,” he said as soon as he caught sight of Childermass, though no question had been asked of him. “I refuse.” He sat up and reached for his coat and breeches, which were draped over the back of a nearby chair.

“You cannot object to me being inconsiderate of your modesty,” Childermass pointed out, “when you have lain nearly bare for Mr. Brandon.”

Vinculus continued dressing himself, and Brandon and Childermass gave twin sighs of frustration.

“We may be able to resume later,” Childermass said. “After he’s had a few pints. The light won’t be half as nice, though.” He looked rather mournfully at the watery grey light streaming in from the window.

\---

Vinculus did, in fact, allow them to attempt to decipher his Letters later that night after Childermass had plied him with a bottle of wine. The three magicians worked late into the night, only rising from their seats to use the privy or to stretch for a brief moment. Segundus was sure he would have forgotten to eat if Childermass had not pushed a bowl of stew into his hands.

Their efforts weren’t in vain, though. Between Segundus, who had a bit of Welsh, and Childermass, who had a bit of a nearly-incomprehensible Northern dialect that he claimed held vestiges of Cumbrian, they managed to figure out a single word, which, when combined with words that had already been translated, formed—

_“A spell to understand the language of trees,”_ Brandon said, holding a page of paper aloft. “From dark mystery, we pluck sweetest sense!”

Segundus stifled a yawn. He had quite lost track of the time, but the quarter-moon shone in through the window and the fire had burnt down to embers. He felt a quiet sort of joy and triumph at the thought of contributing to such an important translation. Even so: “I apologize, sirs,” he said, his voice thick with exhaustion. “I must turn in.”

“As I ought to,” said Childermass. “Vinculus?”

“You can’t be tired as well,” Brandon said before Vinculus could answer, a nearly manic edge in his voice. “You’ve done nothing but sleep all day.”

Vinculus managed a bleary glare. “An’ I shall sleep all night, if I ‘ave my way.” He swung his legs rather clumsily off the table and picked up the bottle, though only a few dregs of wine remained. He didn’t bother putting his coat on before sauntering out of the parlor and up the stairs to his room.

Brandon made a noise of frustration. “Such knowledge at my fingertips, only to be stymied at every turn!”

“Well,” Childermass said, eyeing him warily. “You may continue your work tomorrow, when you are rested and in your right mind. Sir.” Without further ado, he turned and strode through the door. Segundus half-bowed to Brandon and followed Childermass upstairs, determinedly ignoring the heated glare he could feel burning against the back of his neck.

Segundus and Childermass undressed and prepared themselves for bed in near-silence. Segundus realized as he slipped his nightshirt on just how tired he was. He was not used to walking as much as they had earlier that afternoon, and he was still feeling the effects of his ill-advised attempt to ride through the country on horseback. He was utterly exhausted, and as he flopped into bed facing away from Childermass, he fancied that he would fall asleep within seconds.

Childermass seemed to feel similarly. After snuffing the candle by the bedside, he lay on his back, his arm a few heated inches from Segundus’s body. Segundus could feel through the mattress how the tension bled from his body, his breathing coming more evenly and his limbs loosening.

“Come here, John,” Childermass said quite close to Segundus’s ear as he draped an arm around Segundus’s waist and hauled him closer. “That is, if it is agreeable to you.”

“It is,” Segundus said. He rolled onto his back, and his arm pressed up against Childermass’s side. “Quite agreeable, in fact. Only—”

“Only what?” asked Childermass when Segundus didn’t continue.

“I fear that I cannot give you what you want,” Segundus said haltingly. “What you wanted to do in the courtyard, I mean. Not tonight.”

“I do not want that tonight,” interrupted Childermass. “I am not a young man, and today has been tiring.”

“You wanted it earlier.”

“That was earlier.”

“But you want— this?” Segundus pressed himself closer to Childermass.

“Yes, John,” Childermass said. His lips grazed Segundus’s shoulder as he spoke. “I want this.”

Segundus fell asleep bit by bit, lulled by Childermass’s steady heat and even breaths at his side. The last thing he felt before he fell asleep between one breath and the next was a cautious, creeping sort of happiness that unfurled like the first leaves of spring.


	10. The Reticent Leather-worker

**May 1817**

The following morning, Childermass taught Segundus a new spell. The spell had no name; or, if it did, Childermass either didn’t know it or didn’t share it. It allowed them to take on the appearance of shadows so that they might go about their business unnoticed.

“Only if we are not observed by anyone with a keen eye,” Childermass said with a half-smile.

Segundus was barely listening; he was quite taken up with delight at the thought of some new magic to perform. He whispered the incantation without any further ado, and a sense of magic settled over the room like a thin layer of dust. It clung to every surface, and he felt the need to move cautiously lest he disturb it. His vision blurred and his head swam, and he closed his eyes tight until he felt stable again.

When he opened his eyes once more, the world was changed. Gone were the vibrant colors of the paintings and the flowers outside; gone was the warm rich tone of the wood panelling. The world— or perhaps Segundus— had been dipped in shadow, and only grey in delicately varied hues remained.

“How marvellous,” he said— or tried to. His voice sounded like the faintest whisper of wind.

Childermass smiled somewhat to the left of Segundus. “Ending the spell is simple. Whenever you’re ready, will yourself to become solid again.”

Segundus was not ready to end the spell. He tiptoed around the room, delighting in the new sensations that movement brought him. He felt as light on his feet as his old dancing-master could have wished, and far more nimble than he had ever been. It almost felt as if he were underwater, though without all the sluggishness often associated with that condition. Maybe the very air buoyed him, or maybe a thousand tiny threads of magic lifted him so he was on the verge of taking flight. He spun about and laughed. Childermass’s eyes followed him approximately, and Segundus got an idea. He reached out a shadowy hand to touch Childermass’s shoulder.

How curious! Though Segundus could plainly see his own shadow fall upon Childermass, there was no sensation of pressure, no indication that he might be  _ touching _ something. He felt the faintest suggestion of warmth, but that was it. Mildly unsettled, Segundus willed himself back to solidity.

“A useful spell, to be sure,” Childermass said as the colors returned. “But you must take care to stand where shadows fall naturally, else you’ll be spotted. Shall we have breakfast?”

Segundus blinked at the abrupt topic shift. “I suppose we ought to,” he said. “And we should see Vinculus and Brandon settled.”

Childermass’s expression darkened at the mention of Brandon. “I still do not like him.”

“Do you want to send him away?” Segundus asked as he straightened his clothing. The hems of his sleeves were fraying again, he noticed. He made a mental note to turn them when he could spare the time.

Childermass paused in the act of adjusting his necktie. “No,” he said reluctantly. “He  _ did _ help us translate a spell yesterday, and without Pale’s work. That’s the fifth so far, you know.”

Segundus did know; ever since the reformed Learned Society of York Magicians had translated the first word (a feat in which Segundus was proud to say he had a small part), he had followed the efforts at reading the King’s Letters with great anticipation. “I suppose you shall have to tolerate him for the time being.”

Childermass sighed. “Aye.”

A few minutes later, they went down for breakfast, which was a quiet affair. Neither Vinculus nor Brandon were present; Childermass appeared half-relieved and half-agitated. Segundus, for his part, was too excited at the prospect of turning himself into a shadow once more to care much about their wayward companions.

For that was the plan, Childermass explained over toast and eggs. Maggie had not given them a location for Hastings more specific than  _ near the church, _ so they would lurk nearby until the service was over and the congregation left.

“How very fortunate that today is Sunday,” Segundus said. “What would you have done if it were any other day?”

Childermass shrugged. “Something else, I wager.”

Segundus shot him a look that he hoped conveyed the depths of his exasperation, but Childermass didn’t seem to notice.

They finished their breakfast shortly after and, once Childermass had ascertained that Vinculus was still safely in his room, made their way to the church at the edge of town. There could be no confusion about which church Hastings lived near, because Duffield only had the one. It was moderately-sized and well-built, with a small copse of trees on one side and a cemetery that stretched out behind it.

“What if he is not there?” Segundus asked as they approached. “What if he is sick or not the churchgoing type?”

“Then we shall have to arrange a meeting another way,” said Childermass. “But let us worry about that when the need arises, and not before.” He led Segundus into the copse of trees and checked his pocket-watch. “The sermon should be finished soon, by my estimation, unless the reverend is a man of many words.” After glancing about to check that they were not being observed, Childermass muttered a spell.

Segundus could have sworn he felt a strong breeze smelling of lavender tug at his clothes and his hair, but the trees and grass around them seemed unaffected. When he looked back at Childermass, all that stood in his place was a dark shadow. Segundus eyed the shadow critically. “It is not a very bright day,” he said. “We will have to position ourselves very carefully to avoid notice.”

A sense of agreement (and mild impatience) radiated from the shadow.

Segundus wasted no more time before casting the spell. He grew dizzy, then light. Despite the solemnity of their mission, he could not help but grin (rather foolishly, he was sure) as the magic took hold. He turned to Childermass. Much to his surprise, he could see both the man and the shadow that disguised him. It was a curious sensation. Childermass appeared flat and insubstantial, like a watercolor portrait that had been painted through some artifice on a grey mist. Even so, Segundus could make out the rough edges of his features, which were arranged in a familiar half-smile. “Is this how shadows see each other?” Segundus asked— though once again, his voice was no louder than a whispering breeze.

Childermass seemed to get the gist of the question, though. His smile broadened.  _ You have a very romantic view of shadows, sir. _ Childermass’s mouth moved, but the words did not come from his lips; the rustling of leaves and the dappled light on the ground conveyed his message.

This effect was so strange that a hundred questions sprang to Segundus’s mind. Was this the usual manner in which shadows communicated? Could he then communicate with shadows if only he knew the languages of leaves and sunlight? What did  _ he _ look like in his veil of shadow (he did not want to appear vain, but he knew that he and Childermass perceived magic quite differently, despite their shared sensitivity)? But before he had a chance to ask any of these questions, the church-doors opened and the congregation spilled forth. Segundus positioned himself next to an oak tree near the doors, Childermass close by, and trained his ears on any scraps of conversation they might pick out.

Much of what he overheard was mundane; women asked one another about their families, and men asked one another about their businesses. There was talk of groceries and furniture, of fishing and harvesting, of whose daughter had fallen in love with whose son and whose nephew had jilted whose niece. It was, in short, talk of all the various articles and yarns with which people wove the irregular tapestries of their lives.

Segundus rather enjoyed listening to that sort of talk. It reminded him pleasantly of his time in the Honeyfoots’ society, when Mr. and Mrs. Honeyfoot would gossip in the kindest manner with each other and with him, and their three daughters would sing together while the eldest played the pianoforte. It induced an odd feeling in him— a sort of pang in his chest. He rubbed absently at his ribs and wondered if the eggs he had eaten earlier had gone off.

Just when Segundus could sense Childermass’s growing impatience, he caught sight of Ainsworth, dressed in a neat if well-worn suit, walking very close to a short, stocky man who gripped his old-fashioned hat in strong fingers. Childermass must have noticed the same pair, for he grew quietly intent. (In the back of his mind, Segundus wondered if his increased awareness of Childermass’s emotional state was a side effect of the spell or a consequence of their increasingly intimate acquaintance.) They could not be certain the stocky man was Hastings, Segundus told himself to quiet the excitement that rose to his throat. He could be the third man Maggie mentioned, or someone unconnected to the Johannites entirely. Somehow, though, Segundus doubted it.

Ainsworth and the other man made their way down the lane that led to the church. Fortunately, they were nearly the last people to leave, so Segundus and Childermass did not have to wait long before the church-doors were shut and the crowd of church-goers’ backs were turned. They slipped down the lane, silent as rippling shadow and dappled light.

They did not have far to go; the unknown man and Ainsworth paused outside one of the apartment buildings that lined the street. After a brief conversation which ended in Ainsworth growing visibly agitated and the other man’s face setting in hard, angry lines, they parted. Ainsworth stormed off in the direction of Yew Tree Farm, and the man rubbed a hand over his face and through his dark hair and let himself inside.

With a jerk of the head, Childermass led Segundus some distance away from the apartment and into a narrow alley. There, one after the other, they dropped their disguises and made their way in a more mundane manner back to the home of Ainsworth’s unknown companion.

Childermass rapped sharply upon the door, which opened a few moments later to reveal the unknown man. “Mr. Hastings?” Childermass asked.

The man’s face took on an expression that reminded Segundus of a door slamming shut. “Aye,” he said. “And I suppose you’re the fellows what harassed my good friend in his place of work.”

Childermass raised an eyebrow. “We asked him a few questions, after he agreed to be interviewed.”

“He said you asked him if he was a Johannite!” said Hastings. “Hardly a harmless question.”

“Yes, and he confessed to being one. We have it on very good authority that you are as well.”

A look of doubt crossed Hastings’s face. He did not invite them in, but neither did he slam the door in their face, which Segundus counted as a point in their favor.

“Mr. Hastings, I believe we have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Segundus interjected. “As I am sure you are aware, I am Mr. Segundus and this is my colleague Mr. Childermass. We do not represent the militia or the law. We only want to talk to you about the Johannite rebellion."

“Oh, aye?” Hastings looked them up and down. “And what do you plan on doing with whatever information I might tell you?”

“Nothing,” Segundus said. “We have no interest in reporting you to the authorities or seeing you punished.” Childermass shot him a warning look, and he held his tongue. Even so, he thought it was rather unfair. He had not said anything amiss, had he?

"I'm sure you think you have good reasons for your rebellion," said Childermass. "As I told your friend, I am sympathetic to your cause. I too count myself a servant of the Raven King, and I admit I would not mind seeing him on the throne. But this is not the way to go about it, sir.”

“Are you so sure I'm a Johannite?"

"I am," Childermass said. "My source is very reliable."

"Well then, I suppose you'd better say what you came here to say, and then we can both be about it."

“Very well. May we come in?”

Hastings folded his arms. “You may not.”

“Alright, if you want to do this outside where anyone may hear us, on your own head be it. Rebellion is dangerous and foolish, but I expect you already know that.”

“You expect right.”

“More importantly, it’s not the way to get what you want.” Childermass leaned in close. Segundus expected Hastings to take a step back, but he held his ground. “Public opinion is not with you. People don’t want a rebellion right now, so soon after the war.”

“Then you have no cause for concern, sirs,” said Hastings, giving them a mocking half-bow. “The rebellion will fizzle out with no harm done. All my effort will be for nought, and you may certainly feel very superior.”

Childermass scoffed. “That’s not what you believe will happen.”

“No, it is not.” Hastings sighed. “Think me foolish if you will, but I must believe in a better future, and I must do what I can to fight for it.”

“You may not believe me, but I understand perfectly.” Childermass glanced at Segundus. “My colleague can attest to the fact that I have made many hard decisions in the pursuit of a better future— for magic and for England. I don’t believe your motivations to be foolish, only your actions.”

To Segundus’s surprise, Hastings grinned at that. “I appreciate a man who will speak his mind to me plainly. I know Ainsworth already did his best to talk you 'round to our cause, so I won’t bother. I am sorry we aren’t to be allies.”

“I am sorry for it as well.”

Childermass sounded as sincere as Segundus had ever heard, and he wondered how deeply the other magician’s rebellious tendencies ran.

“Be that as it may,” said Hastings, “I don’t believe we have any more to say to each other. You won’t join us, and we won’t give up. I must ask that you leave us be, sirs. You will get no more information from me.”

Childermass stood silently for a few moments, his face impassive. When he spoke, it was like a statue coming to life. “One more question. How do you know my sister?”

Hastings’s face went blank. “Your sister?”

“She’s a maid up at the hall.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever met Miss—” Hastings coughed. “Miss Childermass, is it? Or has she married?”

“Then how is it she knows where you live?”

“I was not aware she did.” Hastings’s face had a studied sort of blankness.

Childermass squinted at him as though he could divine the man’s thoughts from the carefully guarded expression, but Hastings bore the scrutiny without moving a muscle. “We will speak again soon.”

“If you say so. Good day, gentlemen.” Hastings gave them a short nod, which Segundus returned, and shut the door firmly.

The sound of a lock turning came from the other side of the door, followed by several bolts sliding closed. “That did not go well at all,” Segundus said as silence fell. “Why on Earth did you ask him about your sister?”

Childermass gestured for Segundus to follow him and set off down the lane toward the center of town. “A hunch. I thought it odd that Maggie should know his name and the general area of his residence, but not its exact location.”

Segundus furrowed his brow. “How is that odd?”

“Why would she know where he lives, unless she knows him? And if she knows where he lives, why not tell me exactly? It’s not impossible, but it’s certainly odd that she would conceal their relationship from me.”

“You are not suggesting anything untoward!” Segundus cried.

Childermass scoffed and fumbled in his pockets for his pipe. “Maggie always did like dangerous men. Did you notice how he stumbled over her name? We have different surnames, she and I. He was about to say  _ Miss le Roy, _ I am sure of it.”

“But he called her  _ Miss Childermass _ instead, because…” Segundus trailed off. He forced himself to think like Childermass would— to unravel the mysteries of subtle motivations and secret agendas. If Childermass was correct, and Hastings knew Maggie’s last name but called her by the wrong one on purpose— “because he did not want us to know that he knows her.”

Childermass tapped the side of his nose and winked.

“Why, though?” Segundus asked. “Why would both he and your sister want to conceal their acquaintance from you?”

“I can think of a half-dozen reasons off the top of my head, but I expect we will need to speak with Maggie again to determine which one is correct. No time for that at the present, though. Housemaids work long, busy hours. She will have no time for us until later tonight."

"What are we to do in the meantime?" Segundus asked, and he flushed at the knowing look Childermass shot him.

"Regrettably, none of that, sir," said Childermass. "No, I think we ought to speak to the captain of the militia. Something is not adding up."

"How so?"

"It's all too convenient, don't you think? Ainsworth and Hastings both admitted to being Johannites. If Maggie is to be believed, it is common enough knowledge, and yet they are still free men. Either whoever's in charge of the militia knows about them and has chosen not to move against them…" Childermass broke off as they passed a small entourage of villagers. "Or Maggie knows more than she wants us to believe. I'd put money on the latter, but I can't rule out the former."

Segundus paused to consider that. "You do not think Maggie is involved?"

"I don't know what to think," said Childermass. "I hope our visit with whomever commands the militia will be elucidating in that regard." He glanced at Segundus. "It may be best if you do the questioning, if the commanding officer— whatever his title— is a gentleman."

Segundus nodded. He could do that, he was sure.

"And," Childermass continued, "it may be best if our interest seems… impersonal."

"Academic, you mean?" said Segundus.

"Aye. It may put him at ease if he believes we are only involved as a matter of professional curiosity."

“And if he is at ease, he may be more talkative.”

Childermass smiled. “We will make a spy out of you yet, Mr. Segundus.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes. The streets had been quiet earlier while everyone was at church, but a quiet bustle started up. The sun peeked out from behind a cloud, and Segundus squinted in the sudden brightness. “Where do you think we’ll find the militia?”

“Where else?” Childermass replied. “The old militia barracks.” He smoothed his hair back and retied it. That small action, more than anything else, betrayed how much importance Childermass placed on this interview. Segundus felt a thrill at this secret knowledge that would have been out of his grasp even a week ago.

“Why, John, I believe that’s the tidiest I have ever seen you,” he teased.

“Do not get used to it.” Childermass glanced at him. “Now, we cannot be seen going into the barracks, or we will raise suspicion from the townsfolk. We will have to approach as shadows and drop the spell at the right time.”

That seemed like a perfectly sensible plan to Segundus, so he followed Childermass into a convenient alleyway without complaint. He still felt a bit awkward about the interview with Hastings, but he did his best to shake it off. The joy of casting the spell again went a long way to lifting his spirits, and he was in good cheer as they made their way toward the barracks.

Duffield was a small enough town that very few of its structures could be accurately described as “out of the way.” Fortunately, the barracks was one of those structures. Segundus’s neck twisted and turned as he kept watch for any townsfolk that might be milling about, but he saw none. Either they avoided the area intentionally out of some ill will, or there were simply no other attractions nearby that might tempt their various interests. Segundus favored the second explanation; the lane to the barracks was long and not lovely. A tall, unkempt hedgerow ran along either side of the lane, and Segundus could see twisted trees in the distance. Once Childermass was sure they wouldn’t be seen, he signalled Segundus and they dropped their disguises.

He eyed the barracks in trepidation as they approached. The place was in a state of some disrepair, Segundus saw, though he supposed that standing empty and unused for several years would do that to a building. Part of the roof had caved in and was still being fixed, and the shutters needed a fresh coat of paint. The building was made of red brick, squat and rectangular. No particular efforts had been made toward its beauty; the waist-high hedge that formed a barrier around it seemed less decorative and more like a fortification. A few officers milled about the yard. They watched Segundus and Childermass with interest but didn’t call out to them.

Segundus followed Childermass into the building. He wasn’t sure what he had expected the inside of a militia barracks to look like, but it certainly hadn’t been this. He found himself in a small front room, lit by sunlight from wide windows. Several armchairs were grouped around a low table to his left, and ahead of him, a wide hallway led deeper into the building. He could see officers in bright red uniforms bustling about their business up and down the hallway. A clerk sat at a solid-looking wooden desk just to the right of this hallway, and he looked up from his work when they arrived.

“Good day, gentlemen,” he said. His eyes returned to the parchment before him, and his quill resumed scratching.

“Good day,” Childermass said. Segundus echoed him a moment later. “We are here to see the commanding officer of this regiment.”

The clerk didn’t look away from his work. “Is he expecting you?”

“No,” said Childermass. “But it is a matter of some urgency.”

“Naturally,” the clerk said. “But Captain Oakes has many matters of urgency to attend to.”

A muscle jumped in Childermass’s jaw. “May we make an appointment to see him at his earliest possible convenience?”

“Certainly,” the clerk said. He pulled a diary toward him from the edge of the table and made a show of thumbing through it. “The earliest he is available is three days hence, at half-past ten.”

“That is very agreeable to us, sir,” Childermass said deferentially. Segundus glanced at him in concern, but his eyes were fixed on the clerk.

“Very good,” the clerk said. “Who may I say the appointment is with?”

“Mr. Childermass and Mr. Segundus of the Learned Society of York Magicians,” Childermass said.

Before the clerk could finish writing their names, an officer emerged from the hallway, hat tucked under one arm and captain’s sash slightly askew. “Did I hear correctly, Adams? There are magicians here?”

The clerk looked between the three men standing before him. “Yes, sir,” he said cautiously. He indicated the two magicians. “Mr. Childermass and Mr. Segundus.”

“What-ho, what-ho!” the officer cried. He shook Childermass’s and Segundus’s hands in turn. “I am Captain Oakes. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my good sirs. Are you here to see me? Please, come with me directly!”

“But sir,” Adams protested. “You have a meeting with—”

“Oh, put him off, Adams! He’s a dreadful bore, and he can get on fine without me anyway.” The captain ushered Segundus and Childermass forward. “This way, sirs, into my office! It is just on the left.”

Segundus blinked at Oakes’s over-exuberance but allowed himself to be chivvied into the captain’s office. It was pleasant enough, he supposed; it had a great deal of natural light but very little in the way of personal touches. A shelf on the left held several dry-looking books of military history and accounts of bygone wars. Oakes sat down on one side of the sturdy oak desk and motioned for Segundus and Childermass to sit opposite him.

As Segundus sat, he took the opportunity to study Oakes more carefully. He looked young for a captain, his face unlined by worries or cares. His brown eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and his hair sprung from his head in wild blonde curls that had only seen a token effort of taming. He reminded Segundus of Jonathan Strange when they had first met, before Strange had gone to the Peninsula and then to Waterloo and had come home a changed man.

“So, sirs,” said Oakes, rubbing his hands together with glee. “You are magicians! I must confess that I have a great fascination with magic. Are you practical or theoretical magicians?”

“Practical,” Childermass said, and Segundus couldn’t help but smile a little giddily. “Though Mr. Segundus here is a most respectable scholar. He has published several excellent articles on the theories of magic and is working on a biography of Jonathan Strange.” (This was news to Segundus.)

“You said you were from the Learned Society of York Magicians?” asked Oakes. He received two quick nods. “Have you had the opportunity to study the King’s Letters?”

“Ah,” said Childermass with a half-smile. “You certainly have been keeping up with current events in the field of magic. I flatter myself, sir, that I am among the men who have had the greatest opportunity to read the King’s Book.” Childermass leaned forward in his chair, his gaze intent on Oakes’s wide eyes. “We are not only practical magicians, you see. We are magio-historians, and we’re interested in the state of England after the Raven King’s return.”

“It is a fascinating topic, to be sure,” said Oakes. “But why come here? I don’t see what information I can give you.”

Childermass sat back in his seat with a satisfied air. "I suppose that remains to be seen, Captain," he said. "My colleague and I have a few questions we hoped you might answer."

Having judged that Captain Oakes was sufficiently gentlemanly to respond well to his manners, Segundus jumped in. “Would you not agree, Captain, that the Johannites have been a significant influence in Northern England these past few years?”

“Certainly,” Oakes said. “That is, after all, why I am here.” He frowned. “But what interest have you in the Johannites? Surely the misfortunes of some craftsmen are beneath the notice of magicians such as yourselves.”

For the first time, Childermass’s pleasant demeanor dropped. He drew in a sharp breath, but Segundus pressed his heel into the toe of Childermass’s boot and forestalled whatever reproach he had been about to give.

“In the study of magical history, nothing is beneath our notice,” Segundus said to smooth the moment over.

Childermass quickly regained his composure. “Indeed. So, Captain Oakes, that is the information you can give us. Tell us about the rumors of Johannite activity that have been circulating in this town.”

Oakes’s fair brow furrowed in contemplation. “What will you do with this information, should I give it to you?”

Childermass shrugged at that. “Nothing, most likely. Magic is fashionable now, but history, even magical history, never has been. There’s little interest in such dull topics. I doubt more than three or four other historians shall ever see our notes.”

“Well, it’s hardly a secret,” Oakes said, seemingly to himself. “And after all, this is not a time of war and you are not my enemies. There is little enough harm in it, to be sure.”

“No harm at all, sir,” Segundus reassured him. “If it would ease your mind, you will go unnamed in any notes we make.” He turned the full force of his most charming smile— the one that got him extra rolls of bread, another week to make rent, a quiet tip from a bookseller as to where he might find what he was looking for. Oakes— polite, bumbling Oakes— had no chance.

The captain nodded several times, and his lined brow smoothed. “It does ease my mind, sir, quite a bit. Well, then.” He took a deep breath as though fortifying himself. “What do you want to know?”

“These sorts of things have leaders, I understand," said Segundus. "After all, they must be organized. Do you know the names of the ringleaders?"

Oakes looked faintly troubled. “Indeed I do not, sir, though not for lack of trying. I have had my ear to the ground, as it were, but I have not been able to determine anything about the leaders.” He coughed. “Nor, I am sad to say, has my informant.”

“Your informant?” Segundus repeated. He shared a glance with Childermass and knew they were on the same page.  _ Who was Oakes’s informant, and did Maggie know about him? _

Oakes smiled, clearly pleased with himself. “I cannot reveal her name, of course, but she has been invaluable in tracking the movements of the Johannites and reporting to me on their plans.”

The pronoun startled Segundus. Oakes’s informant couldn’t possibly be Maggie, could it? “How wonderful for you to have an ally in your task,” he said. “I will not do you or her the disservice of asking her name, but would you be so kind as to tell us what sort of information she has been able to discover?”

Oakes glanced between the two magicians. “Are you sure that is relevant to your study?” he said with a small frown.

“Oh, yes, very!” said Segundus. “Only so we can estimate how many Johannites there may be, or perhaps determine their goals.” He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “Nothing to connect to you or your informant, of course. Strictly facts that may one day be part of history.”

Oakes relaxed slightly. “Well, there are not very many Johannites, no more than five or six, I should think. As for their goals, well.” He shrugged one shoulder. “They do not seem to have any, to be honest. My informant assures me that they are pretenders at best and dissatisfied drunkards at worst. They have no interest in burning any buildings or causing any destruction. Not much of a rebellion, is it? But there you are.”

“They do not… want anything?” Segundus said. He and Childermass shared another glance. “How can they be Johannites if they have no demands, no plans to burn anything?”

“Well, I suppose because that is just what they call themselves.” Oakes did not appear overly troubled by the prospect of rebels without a cause. 

“How unusual! Your informant certainly seems well-connected. How lucky you are to have such insight.”

“Oh, yes!” Oakes beamed. “She has found out such wonderful information.”

Segundus smiled encouragingly. “Such as?”

Oakes opened his mouth as though to speak, then paused. “Well. I— that is to say, she has found that— ahem. I believe I have told you most of the information she has told me, sirs. It seemed like much more as she relayed it to me, but there you have it.” Segundus would have suspected some deception on Oakes’s part, but the captain looked so genuinely puzzled that he could not help but believe he was sincere. “Yes, that is the bulk of it. There are few Johannites, with very little structure, and no real goals.” He nodded decisively. “I do hope that is helpful to you, gentlemen!”

Segundus was about to press him further, but Childermass interrupted.

“Of course, sir,” Childermass said. “Most helpful. We cannot thank you enough. Now, we have monopolized your time for long enough. I’m sure you have many more important things to attend to.” He stood and paused. “Before we leave you to your business, may I pay you a compliment?”

Oakes tilted his head in puzzlement and nodded.

“We have been about the town for a few days, and we have noticed how very professional your soldiers are,” said Childermass. “They seem to keep to themselves, and none of the townsfolk have uttered a single word of complaint at their conduct. It must be a dreadful bore to be stationed in such a small, dull town, and worse-trained soldiers would no doubt be raising all manner of havoc. I must compliment you, sir, for ensuring that your men cause no disturbances, and indeed let the town alone as much as they are able.”

“Oh— I… why, yes,” Oakes stuttered. “Yes, I am fortunate to be in command of some of the finest fellows in the British Army.”

Childermass looked at him, saying nothing. A heavy layer of expectancy settled over the room. Segundus was familiar with the sensation, though he hadn’t had such a look directed at him in over a decade.

Oakes seemed as unable to resist as Segundus had been. He wavered, clearly unsure of what he ought to do with such an expectation laid upon him. “I shall commend my men,” he said after a moment. “And encourage them to maintain— or even increase— their decorum, since you have complimented it so highly.”

Childermass smiled at that. “I am obliged to you, sir. We shall not take up any more of your time. Good day.”

“Good day,” Segundus echoed. He followed Childermass out, feeling as though something important had happened, some clue had revealed itself, though he could not begin to guess at what it might be. This feeling persisted as they made their way along the edge of town to a safe distance from the barracks, where they dropped their disguises, and it persisted as they strolled back through town to the Bridge Inn for an early luncheon.

“You are very quiet,” Childermass remarked over baked trout and pickled vegetables.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” said Segundus. He picked at his food. “I was just thinking about Oakes.”

“So was I.” Childermass stabbed viciously at a slice of pickled onion. “Things are not adding up.”

“I was thinking the same.”

“Tell me your thoughts, if you would be so good.”

Segundus spoke slowly, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together in his mind. “Both Maggie and Captain Oakes seemed to believe that the Johannites were harmless and powerless.”

“Aye, or they wanted us to believe they believed that.”

“Quite so. On the other hand, Mr. Ainsworth and Mr. Hastings were both very clear with their goals. They want change, and they are not afraid of rebellion.” Segundus paused, frowning at his vegetables. “Could Maggie be the captain’s informant?”

“I thought the same.” Childermass paused and sighed. “We are being lied to, either by Maggie or by Oakes, or possibly both. I do not believe the captain has a deceptive bone in his body, which means he is being lied to as well. Maggie is a given. We must speak to her as soon as possible.”

“Are you sure we should invite her here again?” Segundus asked. She hadn’t said much the last time they spoke with her, and he doubted she would be any more forthcoming now.

“Nay,” said Childermass. “I want to catch her off-guard. We will go to the manor house tonight.”

“Will the family not think it odd if we ask to see one of their housemaids?” said Segundus doubtfully.

Childermass rolled his eyes. “We will not be going in through the front door. We will use the servants’ entrance. If all goes well, the family will never know we’ve called.”

Thus agreed, they finished their luncheon and sought out Brandon and Vinculus, who had taken the private parlor again. There, the three magicians labored for hours to decipher a word or a spell. The work was frustrating, though it was the sort of frustration that Segundus enjoyed: the putting-together of a puzzle one could not see, but knew the shape of through study and contemplation. Even this happy work, however, could not dispel his unease for the evening ahead.


	11. Divergence

**May 1817**

On Sunday afternoon, the blacksmith’s apprentice knocked on the servants’ door in the back of Duffield Hall and delivered into the arguably capable hands of the hall-boy a letter from Mr. Hastings to “Miss Margaret.” The hall-boy gave it to the footman, who gave it to the butler, who gave it to Mrs. Hughes, who finally tracked Maggie down and handed her the letter with a stern warning not to let it distract her from her work. Maggie tucked it in her pocket almost as soon as she received it; she didn’t need more than a glance at the writing on the front to know who it was from and what news it likely contained. It weighed heavily all through her afternoon work, and it was nearly three when she had the chance to read it— just in time. She made up an errand to Mrs. Hughes, and she and Milly hurried across town to Yew Tree Farm.

Neither of them talked much. Milly seemed rather preoccupied, and she rebuffed Maggie’s few attempts at conversation. Maggie didn’t mind; she was not in the mood to discuss trivialities, and any more serious topic of conversation shouldn’t be spoken of where there was a possibility of being overheard. Eagerness and anxiety swirled in equal measures in Maggie’s stomach. Now was the time for the success or failure of her plan to protect the Johannites from her brother’s scrutiny to be revealed. She hoped desperately for success.

The others were already there when the women arrived, and Hastings smiled tightly as he invited them into the farmhouse.

“I hope this means you have good news,” Maggie said.

Hastings shrugged one shoulder and closed the door firmly behind them. “I’m not sure.”

Maggie’s stomach sank, and she exchanged a glance with Milly. For some reason, Milly looked nervous as well.

Ainsworth was pacing the length of the kitchen when they entered. His red hair was mussed, as though he had run his hands through it multiple times in agitation. “Three more men were given their walking papers this week,” he said without preamble. “All from Greene’s mill, all for no reason but a whim."

"James and I will talk to them," Hastings said. "Get 'em angry, maybe get 'em in with us."

Goddard nodded his agreement. "Anyone we know well?"

"Cole, Branson, and Whitby." Ainsworth sighed. "I know Whitby well enough. His wife is Sarah's cousin. But, my friends, that is precisely why I called this meeting. It is increasingly clear to me that talk isn't good enough now. We have  _ been _ talking, to each other and to other men, for months now. You will all notice that our number hasn't grown."

As Ainsworth spoke, Maggie felt a pit of dread growing in her stomach. She thought she knew what Ainsworth’s speech was leading up to, but she hoped she was wrong.  _ Not now, of all times, with John Childermass snooping around and the militia breathing down all our necks! _ She wanted to shake Ainsworth and yell at him not to act out of blind temper.

"We are beyond talk, my friends," Ainsworth continued grimly. "The time has come for action. We must demonstrate that we will no longer allow ourselves to be treated in such a way, with no regard for our families or our livelihood. We must refuse the cruelty and the abasement, not only for ourselves but for Cole, Branson, Whitby, and the thousands of other men in this country just like us. We are  _ Johannites, _ and the time has come to prove it. Johannites do not just talk.” He paused in his pacing and looked around at his enraptured audience. “My friends, we have been ignored for too long. Let us do something that cannot be overlooked or dismissed. I believe the target is obvious.”

A short silence followed his pronouncement, as though a spell had fallen over the kitchen and frozen the inhabitants in place. Maggie hardly dared to breathe for fear of shattering the fragile moment. A creeping sort of dread slowly seized her as the company sat quietly, contemplating Ainsworth’s words. He had set them all upon a dangerous path, and Maggie wasn’t sure if she was prepared to follow.

“This is madness,” Milly whispered.

Every eye in the room turned to her.

“I beg your pardon?” said Ainsworth.

Milly glanced nervously at Maggie but lifted her chin to meet Ainsworth’s eyes. “This is madness. You cannot achieve what you want by— by burning down the mill. You think that will make the owner want to hire more men?”

Ainsworth opened his mouth to speak, but Goddard cut him off. “Miss Greene,” he said in a tone much colder than his usual affable state, “if you are uninterested in taking part in a revolution, why on Earth are you here?”

“I am here for the same reason as the rest of you,” Milly said. “I believe in a better future. But you cannot get there through wanton destruction!”

“What do you propose we do?” Hastings asked. “Peter’s right. Talking’s gotten us nowhere.”

Milly seemed to be at a loss for words, and she quailed beneath the unfriendly stares still aimed at her. “I do not know what you should do. Talk to more people, perhaps, or change your strategy. But please, sirs, this is a  _ mistake. _ This is not what the Raven King would want.”

“Oh, you know him personally, do you?” said Ainsworth. “Very good friends you must be, if he trusts you to speak for him.”

Milly said nothing and glared at a knot in the wood of the table.

"Miss le Roy, you've said nothing on this topic," Hastings said. "What are your thoughts?"

Maggie had scarcely had time to gather her thoughts, and now she was expected to voice them! She took a deep breath to give herself a moment to think. Ainsworth wasn’t thinking rationally, but maybe she could make him see sense. “I regret to say, sirs," she began hesitantly. "I agree with Milly. The time isn’t right— public opinion is against us, and we have no way of knowing if any action we take would bring us good or ill will."

Hastings looked at her sadly. "You sound like your brother."

Maggie started at that. "You spoke with him?"

"This morning," Hastings said with a nod. "Just after church. I told him nothing. Only…" he frowned. "He asked me how I knew you. I replied that I did not, and I referred to you as  _ Miss Childermass. _ I’m not entirely sure he believed me.”

Maggie sighed. John was too clever by half, the bastard. She couldn’t be sure if Hastings had evaded whatever trap her brother had laid for him, and she wouldn’t know until she spoke with John again. “That’s alright,” she said. “I’m sure nothing will come of it.”

Hastings didn’t look convinced.

“I spoke with Mr. Childermass as well,” said Ainsworth. “Obviously, he did not join our cause, but he told me he believed England is in such turmoil that any spark could start the flame of a revolution. He put it in rather less favorable terms, of course, but that is the essence of what he told me.” He strode to the window and paused, his face in profile outlined by the afternoon sun. “My dear friends, I believe we are meant to be that spark. If there is to be a revolution, let it be ours, and let us— and the Raven King— build a better England from the ashes.”

“Hear, hear,” said Goddard quietly.

“What’ll it be, ladies?” Hastings asked.

Maggie had made her choice months ago out of the few that were available to her. Suddenly, and for the first time, she wondered if she had made the wrong one.  _ The men couldn’t possibly believe they were ready for a revolution, could they? _ Who on Earth would join them, if they moved now? Ainsworth was hasty, too hasty by far. She glanced at Milly and saw her worries reflected in her friend’s eyes. “We must take time to consider it,” Maggie said. “This is too important to be decided on lightly.”

Hastings shook his head. “I admit, I’m disappointed, Miss le Roy. I hadn’t taken you for a coward.”

Maggie pressed her lips together, stung.  _ Practicality is not the same as cowardice! _ she wanted to scream, but her dear Hastings was nothing if not stubborn. It was a dangerous mixture— Ainsworth’s temper and Hastings’s stubbornness. The one was inflamed too easily, and the other would never back down once committed to a fight. “I am not a coward,” she said eventually, “because I am not afraid. But I can’t support your burning down the mill. The time is wrong. You don’t know if men will rally to your cause if you go through with this plan! There is more work to be done first, more—” she gestured helplessly. “Recruiting. Organizing. We must have more men on our side before we take action.”

“It always starts small,” said Hastings quietly. “Men doubt change. How could we not, when it is beaten into us since we are born that nothing can change, and we must be content with our lot in life? But we can give them hope, Miss le Roy.” He reached across the table to grasp Maggie’s hand in both of his. “Don’t you hope for a better future?”

“Of course I do,” Maggie said. “But you’re not thinking about this. What happens after you burn the mill? How will you protect yourselves from being arrested?”

“We won’t get caught,” said Hastings. “We go in at night, as Johannites do. And as for afterward—” his face hardened into a frown. “We do it again, and again, and again, as many times as it takes to show the lords and the factory owners that we are not a force to be lightly ignored. Men were afraid, but they’re getting angrier every day.”

“Aye, and do you think men will be angry  _ with _ you or  _ at _ you?” Maggie asked.

Hastings smiled— not the warm, genuine smile Maggie had seen so often directed at herself or his daughters, but a cold, predatory sort of baring of the teeth. It was not an expression she had ever seen on his face, and it troubled her to see it now. “Both, at first, but anger can be directed like light through a lens, and then, my dear Miss le Roy, you may ignite a flame.”

Maggie looked to Goddard for support— surely genial, good-humored Goddard could not agree to such a reckless plan!— but he seemed as resolved as the other two men. No hesitance, no uncertainty clouded his expression. “Many men would only join us after a show of defiance. This is only the beginning, Miss le Roy, Miss Greene. This should have been clear to you when you agreed to join our cause.”

“It was,” Maggie said. “When I joined, I agreed with your reasons, and I still do. It is your plan, your  _ bloody foolish _ plan, I take issue with.”

Hastings snorted. “Now you  _ really  _ sound like your brother.”

Maggie ignored him. “We know each other’s thoughts. It seems I can’t stand with you, for this endeavour, at least. I hope that afterward, regardless of your success or failure, we may be united in purpose once more.”

“You had best leave, then,” said Ainsworth gently. “So you will be quite innocent when the time comes.”

There was a stretch of silence where none of the Johannites could meet each other’s eyes. Maggie expected to feel sadness or betrayal, but perhaps that would come later— now she felt only a cold sort of shock, like the time she had been knocked over in the street following a failed pickpocketing attempt, and all the breath had left her body. She had been left disoriented, her head spinning as she gasped for air. It left very little room for other emotions, like disappointment at her failure or anger at her own incompetence.

Milly was the first to speak. “We should get back to the house. We both have work.”

Maggie, still catching her breath, could only nod in agreement. It took only a moment for her and Milly to gather their things, hurrying about the kitchen like scullery-maids who had taken too long to make up the fireplace and must now escape the judgemental eyes of the mistress of the house while smudged head to toe with soot.

“Well, that’s put a bit of a damper on things,” Maggie heard Goddard say as she and Milly slipped down the hall and out into the garden.

She had failed. Or perhaps she had succeeded, to her own detriment— if John had known from the beginning about her involvement, maybe he could have done more to prevent the Johannites from making a move. Either way, they were heading toward disaster, and Maggie could do nothing to stop it.

Or perhaps—

Ainsworth talked a great deal about love, in his speeches. He loved his country and his countrymen, and he loved the Raven King, and most of all, he loved his wife.

Sarah was scattering grain for the chickens out by the coop. She looked up in askance as Maggie and Milly passed her by. Maggie hesitated, then turned back to face her. “Madam, your husband is a reckless man.”

Sarah scarcely looked surprised, despite the odd greeting. “What has he gotten himself into now?”

“It is not what he has gotten into. It is what he plans on getting us all into— or the men, at least.” Maggie glanced at Milly before continuing. “Ask your husband about his plans for the mill. I daredn’t say more, but perhaps he will listen to you, though he would not listen to us.”

“That’ll be the day,” Sarah said darkly. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” Maggie echoed, and she and Milly set off for the house once more.

\---

Milly managed to escape Maggie’s fearful grasp just before they reached the house by claiming to have forgotten some necessary article in her cottage. She felt guilty for the falsehood, far more guilty than she had felt for any others she had told in the past month. Maggie looked lost and uncertain in a way that Milly had never seen before, and she knew her friend was in need of comfort and reassurance. Milly wanted nothing more than to clasp Maggie in her arms and brush her shining pale hair back from her brow. She wanted to do everything she could to ease the burden of Maggie’s heart. But first, Milly had decisions to make.

There were no good roads from here, she knew. Milly could not allow her father’s mill to be burned, thus casting her family so deeply into financial ruin that they would be beyond all hope of recovery. She had a duty to Oakes, her cousin who had offered to become her husband— and therefore did she not also have a duty to herself, to protect her own future? Did she wish to be a governess forever, scorned by servants and nobility alike, for she could never truly be either? Certainly not! She must warn Captain Oakes of the plan to burn down the mill, and thus save her family from ruin.

Oh, but if she did, she would have to reveal how she knew of it— and she would have to reveal her own involvement. Oakes would want to make arrests. He would press her for the names of all the Johannites, and she had always been a terrible liar. Sooner or later, his eye would fall on Maggie. It would be hopeless to lie. She oughtn’t even attempt it. She should put her life behind her and find a new position in a new house. It would not be so difficult, the second time around. Mrs. Porter was sure to give her a good reference. But she would lose everything— she would never escape the solitary life of a governess, and her family would succumb to debt, and it would all be her fault.

If she spoke, she would lose Maggie. If she did not, she would lose everything else. Milly could no longer walk two roads: the time had come to decide. She fell back on her bed and stared at the ceiling as though the grain of the wood might arrange itself to spell out the correct answer. That had been something the Raven King once did, hadn’t it? He had sent messages in strange, supernatural fashions. Maybe he would reward her faith, such as it was, by revealing the correct path to her.

Milly thought about the Raven King, and about loyalty. Who was she loyal to? Maggie, or her family, or herself?

She couldn't continue to walk two paths, but maybe she could still salvage something of her future.

\---

"I want to make a bargain with you," Milly said. She looked up from the delicate table in Captain Oakes’s makeshift sitting room and met the captain’s eyes.

Oakes paused in the act of pouring tea. "What manner of bargain?"

"I have information about the Johannites that will allow you to make arrests. I have uncovered their names and their plans. I will tell you, under two conditions.”

Oakes nearly dropped the teapot. “Certainly I agree!” he said as he fumbled for a napkin to wipe up the spill. “What are your conditions?”

“Firstly, that you guarantee they will not be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. If you execute them, they may very well become martyrs, and you may have an uprising on your hands. You will have to go through all the trouble of putting it down. I doubt my father would appreciate even more trouble, wouldn’t you agree?”

Oakes nodded slowly, his blue eyes wide. “Yes, execution seems rather extreme for men who have taken no illegal actions. It seems prudent to deal with this quietly.”

Milly smiled. Truly, her father was lucky to have a nephew so obliging. “Secondly, there is a woman I want protected. And in return—" Milly took a deep breath. "I accept your offer of marriage, if it still stands."

Oakes’s face lit up in a brilliant smile. “I am glad to hear it, Miss Greene. I believe the Baron Segrave will be delighted with our union.”

_ He will be a tolerable husband, _ Milly thought dispassionately.  _ It is easy enough to keep him happy. _ Out loud, she said, “I agree. I suggest you write to him for his blessing after we conclude our meeting. I have no doubt that he will give it happily.”

Oakes nodded eagerly, then very shyly took Milly’s hand and kissed it. Milly closed her eyes and willed her tears away. “You must be very careful with the information I give you,” she warned. Her voice held a slight tremor, and she took a deep breath to collect herself. “The Johannites have decided to make a public move. Their goal is to burn down my father’s textile mill.”

“Burn down the mill!” Oakes repeated, his eyes wide. “How horrible!”

“Well, they  _ are _ Johannites,” said Milly dryly. “This sort of behavior is only to be expected.”

A frown flickered across Oakes’s expressive face. “I suppose so,” he said. “Who is this woman you want protected?”

“Maggie. That is— Miss Margaret le Roy. She is a maid up at the hall.”

“The same hall in which you are a governess?”

Milly inclined her head.

“By the by, I hope you have no plans of continuing your work after we are married.”

Milly did not like being a governess— rather, she did not like the loneliness that came with the position. She could not eat with the servants, nor could she eat with the family, so she ate alone— except, sometimes, for Maggie. Even so, she bristled. “And why not? Do you think it inappropriate for married women to work?”

“Certainly not!” Oakes looked baffled at Milly’s sudden irritation. “It is only that— ahem. I had assumed you would be joining me in managing the estate. After all, you grew up there. It is your home, and I am unfamiliar with its inner workings.”

“Oh.” Milly’s temper cooled as quickly as it had flared. “Yes, I suppose I will.”

Oakes smiled at her. “That’s settled, then. Tell me, why does Miss le Roy need protection, and from whom?”

Milly’s stomach clenched, and she had to remind herself that she was doing this both for Maggie’s good and the good of her own family. She only wished that it did not feel so much like a betrayal. “From you, Captain Oakes,” she said. “Because Miss le Roy is associated with the Johannites.”

\---

To her own credit, Milly told herself later as she stared into the darkness above her bed, she had not dramatized the moment. She had not fallen prey to hysteria, that mysterious illness which men so often accused women with whom they disagreed, or whose views they deemed too radical, of harboring. She had told Oakes only the facts, and she had cautioned him against acting without care. Certainly, she had betrayed her friends and her principles— but at least she had done it cleanly.

Milly wondered when Oakes would act. She hoped he would not over-publicize the arrests; she didn’t want her name associated with the Johannites in the public consciousness in any form. Notoriety was bad for one’s social circle, and Milly would need every advantage she could get if she wished to rejoin polite society— which, apparently, she did. And of course, there was the matter of Maggie. She had saved Maggie from imprisonment, but there was no doubt in Milly’s mind: they would not be friends, afterward. Maggie would hate her forever, but at least she would not hate her from the confines of a cell.

And what had Milly gained for her treachery? She was not so naïve to believe that she alone had saved her family’s fortune, but she had at least prevented them from sinking irreparably into debt. The Baron Segrave was canny; surely his business sense would pull them the rest of the way out of the hole. He would be delighted to hear of her intentions to marry Oakes (a not-insignificant portion of that delight, Milly knew, would be because he would not have to set her up with a living). She had won herself security, the potential for respectability, and a husband, and all it had cost her was an act of betrayal worthy of the worst villains in history.

Milly rolled over and buried her face in the pillow and very determinedly did not allow herself to cry. Her slumber, when it came for her, was disturbed by dreams of the Raven King. He taunted her and darted between the shadows of trees in a massive wood, until the trees became the bars of a cell, and Milly realized she was trapped.


	12. Maggie and Milly

**May 1817**

Childermass could be very good at talking to people when he wanted to be, Segundus reflected. Now, for instance, Childermass was conversing quite easily with the valet while Segundus sat awkwardly at the servant’s table, pretending to drink his tea. And earlier, Childermass had somehow convinced the hall boy who had answered his knock that it was quite regular for two magicians (one shabby and one rather ragged; neither of them respectable) to want to speak to a housemaid late at night after the servants’ supper, while Segundus had hovered awkwardly behind, clutching his hat and feeling very out-of-place. They were Childermass’s people, he supposed. He wondered who his own people were. Not gentlemen, certainly, for he was too poor for most gentlemanly interests. Not magicians either, or at least not  _ gentlemen  _ magicians, though with the return of the Raven King and magic there were all sorts of magicians now. The Honeyfoots were his people, Segundus decided, and Mrs. Lennox and Mrs. Sparrow, and possibly Childermass as well, if he wanted.

Maggie came downstairs after she finished her evening duties. The housekeeper was kind enough to allow them the use of her sitting room, so they each took an armchair around the comfortable fire as a kitchen maid served them tiny glasses of port. Maggie held her glass in a nervous hand while Segundus did his best to always look like he was about to take a sip without ever actually drinking. He wanted to keep his wits about him.

Childermass didn’t touch his port. Instead, he puffed at his pipe and blew smoke rings upward until they were alone. “So, Maggie,” he said to the ceiling. “You have been lying to me.”

Maggie looked away and then back at him in consternation. A few blonde wisps of hair had escaped her cap, and she pushed them back. “Aye. I suppose it’s no good pretending, now.”

“No, it is not.”

They sat in silence for what seemed like half an hour to Segundus, but he knew was likely no more than thirty seconds. Maggie was the first to crack.

“Is that all?”

“No,” said Childermass.

Maggie made a noise of irritation. “Ask, then.”

“Are you feeding information on the Johannites to Captain Oakes of the militia?”

“Of course not!” Maggie looked surprised. Whatever question she had been expecting, Segundus thought, it had not been that one. “I’ve never even met the man.”

“Is that so?” Childermass said. He puffed on his pipe. “Because you and he have remarkably similar ideas about the Johannites.”

“Did he name me as an informant?”

“No, he didn’t know the names of any of the Johannites.” Maggie twitched, an expression of guilt flickering across her face, and Childermass smiled. “Thought so.”

Segundus sipped at his port. Maybe a drink would not be such a bad idea, after all.

“You’ve found me out, I suppose,” said Maggie. “Well, there you have it. Happy now, John? Really, it was very clever of you. Is that what you want me to say?”

Childermass just watched her, his dark gaze heavy on her restless shoulders. “Why?”

“For the people we used to be,” Maggie said quietly. “So that no one else has to do the things we did. For a better world for the people we are and the people we love.” Her eyes flicked to Segundus, then back to Childermass, and Childermass’s fingers tightened around the stem of his pipe.

“Why send us to Mr. Ainsworth and Mr. Hastings but not the others?”

“I thought they’d put you off.”

“Mr. Hastings did, right enough,” said Childermass. “Mr. Ainsworth though…” He gestured with his pipe. “He was more forthcoming. He made a very convincing case for your cause.”

“I’ll bet he did,” Maggie muttered. She swallowed her port in one go. “So is that it? That's all you want to say?”

“No.” Childermass blew another smoke ring at the ceiling. “I want you to arrange meetings with the rest of the Johannites.” Maggie raised her eyebrows in surprise, and Childermass shot her an unpleasant smile. “Will that be possible?”

“Why do you want to meet them?” asked Maggie.

“Because I want to convince the lot of you to stop this foolish business before you’re all hanged or shot,” Childermass said. His tone was casual, but his eyes were darkly burning. Maggie couldn’t look away, and neither could Segundus. “Mr. Ainsworth and Mr. Hastings are lost causes. They’re rebels through and through. That leaves you and two or three others, according to Captain Oakes.”

Maggie looked down at her empty port glass. “You may be too late.”

“What do you mean?” Maggie said nothing, and Childermass sighed. “You don’t need to protect them from me, of all people. I’m hardly going to hand them over to the militia, am I?”

Maggie deliberated for some time, staring into the fire. Childermass didn’t interrupt her thoughts. When she spoke, her voice was barely louder than a whisper. “They’re going to make a move. The men are planning on burning down the mill.”

Segundus nearly choked on his port.

Childermass was silent for a long moment. Segundus thought he was holding his breath, but no— he could see the other magician’s chest rise and fall slowly. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. “What about the women?” he asked eventually.

Maggie shot him a tiny smile. “We have more sense.”

Childermass snorted. “I wouldn’t be too sure.” He took a long draw of his pipe. “How many?”

“Three men. You met Oliver and Mr. Ainsworth already. The third is a Mr. James Goddard.”

“Oliver?”

Maggie blushed. “Mr. Hastings. We are… close friends.”

Segundus could almost see Childermass filing that piece of information away for future use. “And the women?”

“Only one other. Her name is Milly Greene.”

Childermass frowned. “Greene, like the name on the mill?”

“No relation.”

“Are you certain?”

“She’s a governess,” said Maggie. “She works with me here.”

“Do you know the Christian name of the man who owns the mill?”

“I do not,” Maggie said, “but I know he is a baron in Leicestershire. Mr. Hastings informed us all several months ago. He is a politically-minded man.”

Childermass made a thoughtful humming noise. “She wouldn’t be the first impoverished peer who had to take work as a governess.”

“She’s one of us,” Maggie said firmly.

Childermass raised his hands in a gesture of capitulation.

Segundus finally found his voice. “Why do they want to burn down the mill?” The question came out a bit strangled.

“They think they’re being ignored,” Childermass said without taking his eyes off Maggie.

Maggie scoffed. “We  _ are _ being ignored.”

“It’s  _ we,  _ now, is it?” asked Childermass.

“Honestly, John,” Maggie said with a sigh. “We’re not your enemies.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Childermass darkly. “When?”

Maggie shrugged. “I don’t know. Milly and I left the meeting. I think the men want us to have plausible deniability.”

“Or they don’t want anyone who’s not in on the plan to know the details.” Childermass paused and frowned, and Segundus had the distinct sense that the other magician had noticed something nobody else had. “Why are you telling me now?”

“I don’t want them to go through with it,” Maggie said, “and you’re the only one who might be able to stop them without turning them in.”

“We haven’t yet been successful in that regard.”

Maggie made a noise of frustration. “Then use magic!”

Childermass shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that,” he said, but his expression was thoughtful, and Segundus knew the vestiges of an idea were swirling in his mind. Hopefully, the idea would turn into a plan. “You would sabotage your friends’ plan?”

Maggie bit her lip but nodded. “Mr. Ainsworth and Mr. Goddard have wives. Hastings— Mr. Hastings— has two daughters. I can’t let them get themselves thrown in prison or worse.”

“You were happy enough to get yourself thrown in after them, apparently.”

“Will you help me or not?” Maggie snapped.

“Of course we will help,” Segundus was quick to assure her. “Won’t we, Mr. Childermass?”

Maggie watched Childermass intently, waiting for his answer. She let out a quiet sigh of relief when he nodded once. “Oh, thank God,” she said. “What can I do to help?”

“Haven’t you done enough?” asked Childermass.

Segundus shot him a dirty look. “Any more information you can find out about the arson,” he said, “please tell us.”

“And the meetings,” Childermass added. “I’ll still want to speak to Mr. Goddard and Miss Greene, if possible.”

“Miss Greene doesn’t support the men’s scheme any more than I do.”

“Two informants are better than one, particularly when the one has proven herself to be a liar.” Childermass smiled at Maggie unpleasantly.

Maggie nodded grudgingly. “I’m certain I can get something of the men’s plan out of Hastings.”

Childermass took a pull from his pipe and sent a smoke ring floating toward the ceiling, where a light haze was gathering. “Is he your lover, Maggie?”

Maggie inclined her head to indicate Segundus. “Is he yours?”

Segundus let out a shocked little noise, but neither of them paid him any mind.

Childermass downed his port in one swallow and stood. He pointed his pipe at Maggie. “Arrange the meetings. Write me at the Bridge Inn when it’s done.” He grabbed Segundus’s port from his hands and drank what remained of it as well, then pulled Segundus to his feet. They left Maggie looking a little smug and not at all surprised in the housekeeper’s sitting room and saw themselves out of the kitchen door.

Childermass set a brisk pace down the lane that led away from Duffield Hall. “Bloody difficult woman. We’d have got no more information out of her tonight,” he said by way of explanation. He was angry, Segundus could tell, though the anger seemed unfocused and directionless. It radiated off him into the night.

Segundus didn’t know what he should do with Childermass’s anger. Was he supposed to apologize? He didn’t think so; he was not the cause of it (at least, he didn’t think he was). Should he let Childermass stew in it until he came out of it on his own? That didn’t seem like the correct answer either. Before he was able to formulate a plan, Childermass spoke.

“I am sorry about my sister,” he said. “She’s always been…” He trailed off without offering an adjective to describe Maggie, but Segundus got the gist of it.

“There is no need to apologize,” Segundus assured him. “She gave me no offense.”

“She likes to embarrass people. I did not want her playing her games with you.” From the little of Childermass’s face Segundus could see in the dark, he looked stricken.

“I was not embarrassed,” said Segundus quietly. “Were you?”

“Certainly not. Maggie was always aware of my inclinations, even since we were children. She may have guessed at it before I even knew. You need not fear; she would never tell.”

“I meant…” Segundus fidgeted with the frayed sleeve of his jacket. He couldn’t quite articulate exactly what he had meant. “About me. I am— not so very much.”

Childermass stopped in his tracks and turned to face Segundus. His back was to a streetlamp and his face was in shadow, but Segundus could still make out the complicated expression of happiness and sorrow that twisted his features. He laid his hands on either side of Segundus’s face with tremendous care, much like he had the first time they had kissed. “You are,” Childermass said, his voice pitched low, “everything.”

Segundus lay a hand on Childermass’s wrist where his jacket sleeve had ridden up a bit. He was very warm there, Segundus noted rather woozily. He wondered if Childermass was going to kiss him, but not for long. He felt rather than heard Childermass cast a spell, and then they were kissing on the sidewalk in the light of the streetlamp. It didn’t last long, but the intensity of it left Segundus breathless and brought a pink tinge to Childermass’s face.

They didn’t speak again until they were safely ensconced in the darkness of their room, instead exchanging soft glances and secret smiles and quick touches, all the artifices of two men who must be subtle. After performing his nightly routine and putting on his nightshirt, Segundus crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. He had little energy for anything else that night.

It seemed Childermass felt the same, for he blew out the candle and clambered into bed next to Segundus without initiating anything. He felt around with his hand until he found Segundus’s wrist, which he curled his fingers around.

The gentle, almost chaste touch shook something loose in Segundus. He had to know—  _ something. _ He couldn’t think what. But he had to give voice to the turmoil that suddenly rose in his chest. He took a deep breath. “Are we—” he couldn’t quite bring himself to say the word  _ lovers. _ “What Maggie said?”

Childermass turned to face him. Segundus hoped that his reddened cheeks wouldn’t be visible in the weak moonlight that filtered through the curtain. “Do you want us to be?”

“Do you?” Segundus returned.

“Please,” said Childermass wearily. “I have had quite enough hunting for answers today. Tell me plain.”

“Yes,” said Segundus. “Yes, John, I want that.” It came out as barely a whisper, but he was sure Childermass had heard, for the grip on his wrist tightened and he was hauled across the narrow bed and into Childermass’s arms.

“Then that is what we are,” Childermass said roughly into his ear. He kissed Segundus again and again, his pace frantic, almost desperate, as though their time was somehow limited. Kisses landed on Segundus’s lips and cheeks and nose and jawline; though his skin was overheated, Childermass’s burning mouth was hotter still.

_ How lucky I am, _ Segundus thought, his lips swollen and his breath coming in heaves,  _ to have a lover with such talented lips. _ A spark of joy ran down his spine.

Gradually, their frantic pace slowed and sweetened and ceased. Segundus yawned widely, and Childermass seemed to agree with the sentiment. He rearranged them so Segundus’s back was pressed up against his front. Segundus felt one last brush of lips against his temple before sleep embraced him with velvet arms.

\---

Segundus had a  _ lover. _ He had never had one before, but he did now. The thought kept recurring to him at odd points during the morning, such as when he was combing his hair or when he reached for another slice of toast at breakfast, and he couldn’t help but smile foolishly every time. He had never thought of himself as the type of man who would have a lover. And perhaps just as exciting was the idea that he himself was  _ Childermass’s _ lover! The first time this thought struck him, he told himself that he was being very foolish, because naturally if Childermass was his lover then he was Childermass’s. That was how these things worked, he was given to understand. Even so, the thought that Childermass might choose  _ him, _ of all people— well! The leaves of happiness in his chest grew stronger and greener in the sunshine of this new knowledge, and a few flower buds sprouted for good measure.

No message arrived from Maggie that morning, so Childermass and Segundus spent the time poring over Vinculus, thoroughly engaged in the work of translation— at least ostensibly. What occurred in reality was a strange verbal fencing match between Childermass and Brandon, with Segundus as a reluctant referee who had no idea of the rules and would really rather focus on the King’s Letters.

“You have a true gift with languages,” Childermass said at one point. “We are fortunate indeed that you are here to lend your eyes and mind to the task.”

“Not at all, not at all,” replied Brandon. “I am impressed by how much has been translated so far.”

“It has been the effort of many magicians combined,” said Segundus. He did not like Childermass’s insolence, nor the cold tone in which Brandon replied, but he may as well have stayed silent for all the attention the other men paid him.

“It’s an astonishing effort, especially from magical societies that were only recently re-formed after being broken for so long.” Brandon looked up at Childermass. “And what a tragedy that any and all books that might help us are gone.”

Childermass set his jaw and gave no reply.

“I must commend you, sir,” Brandon said sometime later as they took a break for midmorning tea. “You are exceptionally well-learned.”

Childermass watched him as though expecting some kind of a trick. “No more than my present company, Vinculus excluded.”

“My education was of a different sort,” Vinculus said wisely.

“Ah,” said Brandon. His face twisted into an unpleasant sort of smile. “For a man of your birth to achieve such learning is remarkable.”

“Is it not even more remarkable, sirs,” said Segundus with some distress, “that we are all magicians gathered here to study practical magic? Such a thing has only ever been a dream to me, yet here we are.”

“Indeed, Mr. Segundus,” Childermass said. His eyes didn’t leave Brandon’s face. “Most remarkable. As the Reader of the Raven King’s Book, appointed by John Uskglass himself, I must say I am fortunate to have the assistance of such knowledgeable magicians.”

Around this time, Segundus developed quite a headache and insisted on stepping outside for a breath of fresh air. “No, no, do not trouble yourself, sir,” he said as Childermass made to stand. “I will not be gone long.” Even so, Childermass followed him out of the inn and down the cobblestone street.

“I cannot spend another minute with that smug bastard,” Childermass said. “Where are you headed?”

“I thought I might go back to the little courtyard with the apple tree,” said Segundus. “It is not raining this time.”

Childermass glanced up at the sky. “Not yet, at least.” He seemed to be in a foul mood. He glared at streetlamps and storefronts as they passed, and his footsteps thudded rather more heavily against the sidewalk than they otherwise would.

Segundus let him work through his temper in his own time. That seemed to be the best way to manage Childermass’s moodiness: to let him mull a while in his own bitterness until it drained away and left him clean. Segundus did not think Childermass would enjoy having his sulk interrupted, especially since it was sure to pass on its own.

His guess was right; by the time they reached the little stone courtyard, Childermass’s mood seemed to have lifted. He no longer glared or grumbled, and his steps were lighter. He leaned against the wall of the courtyard and lit his pipe, which seemed to relax him. He was almost smiling as Segundus leaned beside him, heedless of the wear he was causing his jacket.

“How is your headache?” Childermass asked on a stream of smoke.

“Better,” said Segundus. He took a deep breath of the lilied air and felt the pain recede slightly, as though the very scent were an analgesic.

“Good, good,” Childermass said distractedly. Something seemed to catch his eye. He squinted at the stone tree in the center of the courtyard. “John, do you see—” He didn’t continue.

“See what?” Segundus asked. He followed Childermass’s gaze, which seemed to focus alternately on the tree and somehow  _ beyond _ the tree.

“There is summat,” muttered Childermass. He frowned at the tree. “You do not see it?”

Segundus peered at the tree. It looked much the same as it had before, perhaps a bit lighter now that it was not wet. “What is there to see?”

“Perhaps it is nothing,” Childermass said. He shook his head quite hard like a dog shaking water from its fur. Segundus almost giggled at the unlikely comparison.

“You seem much recovered, John,” noted Childermass. “Shall we go back? It is nearly time for luncheon.”

Segundus agreed. “You should not let Brandon needle you so,” he said as they made their way through the streets of Duffield.

“He reminds me of Lascelles,” said Childermass. His fingers brushed almost absently over the scar on his cheek.

Segundus suppressed a shudder. “Dreadful man.”

“Aye.” Childermass seemed to lose himself in his thoughts, and Segundus did not disturb him until they reached the Bridge Inn.

They took an early luncheon without Vinculus and Brandon, who was eager to continue his translation. “No,” he said when they invited him. “I tread a dark path, but I see a light up ahead.”

Childermass rolled his eyes at that. He did not seem displeased by their absence, and was cheered even further by the arrival of a message from Maggie during luncheon. “Miss Greene will meet us at half-pas’ four at the tea-house on King Street.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Rather on the nose, is it not?”

“Do you think Maggie will have warned her against us?” Segundus asked.

“Undoubtedly,” said Childermass. “I only hope she has not misrepresented me too egregiously.”

“Shall I remain quiet unless you have need of my  _ respectability,  _ sir?” Segundus tried to keep his tone light, but some tinge of bitterness must have seeped into his tone.

Childermass looked at him in surprise. “Is owt amiss?”

Segundus took a gulp of tea to cover his discomfort. “You seem to be getting on well enough with the investigation on your own,” he muttered. “I do not like feeling useless.”

Childermass was silent for so long that Segundus began to think he would get no reply. “We are in a situation which favors my particular skills over yours, at least for the time,” he said finally. “I am very good at convincing people to leave off certain activities and behaviors.” He glanced at Segundus. “As you know.”

Segundus’s mouth arranged itself into a moue quite on its own.

“But I am not a diplomat,” Childermass continued. “And gentlefolk respond to me with suspicion, not trust, as they do you.”

“So it  _ is _ about respectability,” said Segundus.

Childermass shook his head. “Nay, it is about knowing which approach to take to get what we want. Miss Greene may very well respond to your polite manners much more readily than to my own. We shall not know while we meet her.”

Segundus nodded slowly, mollified, and they finished their luncheon shortly after.

\---

At four, Childermass and Segundus made their excuses to Vinculus and Brandon and slipped out of the private parlor. Brandon barely looked up from his work as they left. It was rather early to be going, as the tea-house on King Street was scarcely a five minute walk from the Bridge Inn, but Childermass insisted on arriving before they were expected in case Maggie planned some kind of trick.

There was no trick, at least none that Childermass detected, but a well-dressed woman in a neat tan spencer stood as they arrived. “Mr. Childermass and Mr. Segundus, I presume?” she called across the sunny parlor.

Childermass muttered an oath under his breath. “I should have known she would expect me to be early,” he said, quietly enough that his voice wouldn’t carry. “She wanted to catch me off-guard.”

“And did she?” Segundus asked.

Childermass smiled grimly. “Not as much as she hoped.”

They approached the woman, who boldly offered her hand to each of them in turn. Closer up, Segundus could see that she had a sweet face with high cheekbones and merry brown eyes. She wore a narrow-brimmed hat with a bouquet of fabric flowers, and two dark curls hung neatly on either side of her face. “I am Miss Greene,” she said. “I regret Maggie is not here to make proper introductions, but she has introduced you well enough to me already.”

“I had thought she might,” said Childermass. “Shall we have some tea?”

“Please,” said Miss Greene.

They ordered tea and sandwiches, and Miss Greene and Childermass studied each other. Just when Segundus was beginning to feel invisible, Miss Greene switched her attention to him, and he did his best to make the small notes about her appearance that she was undoubtedly making about his. Her clothes were well-made and fashionable, and her hands looked smooth and uncalloused. Her skin was pale, and her nails were clean and manicured. Her accent was nearly perfect King’s English. In short, she had all of the qualities a great family might want in a governess.

“It is Maggie’s hope that we might be friends,” Miss Greene said after she finished her inspection of each of them in turn. “If that is to be the case, I ask that you call me by my Christian name, which is Milly.”

“And if we are not to be friends, Miss Greene?” said Childermass carefully.

“Then I would see no point in continuing this meeting.”

Childermass inclined his head. “As you say, Milly.”

“Thank you, John.”

The tea arrived then, and they each busied themselves with adding milk and sugar to their individual tastes. Childermass slurped somewhat noisily at his tea— something Segundus had never heard him do— and the corners of Milly’s mouth turned down for a split second as though in disapproval. Childermass caught Segundus’s eye and gave him a tiny nod.

“You are a friend of Maggie’s?” Segundus asked over the rim of his teacup. It was difficult for him to speak of Childermass’s sister with such familiarity, given that he had only met her twice and had barely said five sentences to her altogether, but he thought the meeting would go better if he went along with the informality Milly had insisted upon.

“I am,” said Milly.

“How did the two of you meet?”

“I am the governess at Duffield Hall,” Milly said. “We have been friends since I took the position last year.”

“I have done some tutoring myself, now and again,” said Segundus. “How do you find the work?”

“I like it well enough.” Milly set her teacup down. “You wanted to meet with me for a reason, and it was not to exchange banal pleasantries. Shall we skip ahead to the point?”

“Aye.” Childermass set his teacup down as well and leaned forward. “You are a Johannite.”

Milly met his gaze unflinchingly. “I am.”

“Do the family at Duffield Hall know?”

“Are you threatening my position, John?” She smiled. “It will not work, you know. Maggie has told me about the way you carry on, but I have committed no acts of treason, and I have the loyalty of the family.”

“Ah.” Childermass nodded. “So Oliver Hastings convinced Maggie, and Maggie convinced you, but you are just a rebel for a lark.”

Milly did not appear troubled by Childermass’s judgement. “If that’s what you want to believe.”

“What we want is the truth,” said Segundus.

“No,” Milly corrected. “What you want is to convince me to spy on the other Johannites for you.”

“Which should be no hardship to you, if Maggie is correct in believing that you disavow their current actions,” Childermass said.

Milly sat back in her chair. “You’re asking me to betray my friends.”

Childermass shook his head. “I’m asking you to help me— and Maggie— save your friends from prison and an unjust trial.”

Milly raised her teacup to him as if in a toast. “That being the case, tell me why you want to stop the rebellion. If you are convincing enough, perhaps I will do as you say.”

“England is in great turmoil,” Segundus said. “The return of magic and the Raven King both upset the order of things. The following years will bring political and social unrest.”

“That is generally the goal of a rebellion,” said Milly.

“Too much of it will tear the country apart,” Segundus continued. “The rebellions in Yorkshire and Nottingham ended with executions. If any of you are killed, you will become martyrs. Violence will escalate, and England will be split asunder by a civil war.” It was perhaps not as elegantly put as Childermass had done, but Segundus thought it sounded appropriately dire.

Milly’s fingers tightened around her teacup. “I am well aware of the consequences.”

Segundus leaned closer. “We know about the men’s plan,” he said quietly. “We want to stop it. We are on your side, Milly.”

Milly pressed her lips together. “How do you know which side I am on?”

“Maggie told us.” Segundus said. “You do not want a revolution any more than we do.”

Milly said nothing, just gazed at him impassively.

Childermass sighed in frustration. “We’re trying to help you.”

“Have you considered that I do not want your help?” asked Milly. “Do you not understand that all your poking around is only making things more dangerous for us? Your joke of an investigation will not escape the militia’s attention much longer, and it will only draw the captain’s eye to us.”

“Maggie asked for our help to prevent the civil war your friends seem hell-bent on starting,” Childermass growled. His hands tightened on his teacup, and Segundus was surprised the delicate china didn’t shatter. “You ought to think about your priorities, Miss Greene. The captain’s attention will fall upon you as well, unless we can stop this bloody  _ revolution.” _

Milly seemed to waver for a moment. She looked down at her teacup but did not drink from it. “You do not know what you are asking of me.”

“We know we are asking you to act as an informant against your friends,” Segundus said quietly. For some reason, Milly let out a sharp, mirthless laugh at that. “I am sure it feels very much like a betrayal, but we are trying to protect you.”

“I will have to think about this,” Milly said in a small voice. “You have given me much to consider. Good day, gentlemen.” She stood to leave, and Segundus stood as well, but Childermass shook his head.

“One more question,” he said, his eyes intent on Milly’s face. “You say we do not know what we ask of you. Does Maggie know?”

Milly looked faintly troubled at that. “Can anyone truly know,” she said, “what lies in another’s heart?”

“I suppose not,” said Childermass with some impatience. “But you are concealing something from us. Does Maggie know of it?”

“I could not tell you what Maggie does or does not know.”

Childermass huffed a laugh. “You sound like Maggie yourself.”

“I take that as a compliment,” said Milly with a smile. “She is a well-spoken woman. It does me credit to be compared to her.”

“We seem to be getting rather off topic,” Segundus said.

“The topic is closed,” said Milly. She drained her teacup from where she stood. “You have not managed to convince me to feed you information on the activities of my friends. In all honesty, I do not believe you could have. I am no traitor.” Her smile looked somewhat forced.

“Then why bother meeting us at all?” Segundus asked as he and Childermass stood as well.

Milly adjusted her hat. “I was curious. And Maggie asked me to.”

“So you did, just like that?” said Childermass.

Milly nodded. “Just like that.”

“You must hold my dear sister in very high regard.”

“I do. She has been a good friend to me.” A strange look crossed Milly’s face, there one instant and gone the next. Segundus couldn’t be sure, but it looked like guilt. “Good day, gentlemen. I expect we shall see each other again soon.”

Childermass and Segundus remained standing until she passed through the door and out onto the street, then Childermass sat with a sigh. Segundus followed suit. “Bloody fanatics,” Childermass muttered as he filled his pipe. “They see the revolutions in France and America and think it would be a fine thing to have one of our own. Not one among them knows what war looks like.”

“And you do?” Segundus said doubtfully.

Childermass looked at him through a veil of smoke. “Better than any of them.”

They lapsed into silence, Segundus sipping his tea and Childermass smoking his pipe, a faraway look on his face. When his pipe was finished (Segundus assumed), he stood abruptly and swallowed the rest of his tea in one gulp. “Come, John,” he said. “I want to go back to the stone tree.”

“Why?” Segundus asked, though he stood as well.

Childermass shook his head. “I cannot explain it. There is some magic about the place that calls me. I am… drawn to it.”

“Then we shall go!” Segundus grew excited at the prospect of magic. “We must not delay.”

“Aye,” Childermass agreed, and they set off into the street.

\---

The courtyard draped in the golden light of evening had an unearthly, unsettling beauty. The shadow of the tree fell the wrong way: into the sun instead of away from it, and the lilies bobbed in a breeze that was not there. Segundus thought he heard a far-off voice say something to him in a language he didn’t recognize. His skin prickled with magic. Childermass did not appear to notice these strange phenomena, though. His gaze was transfixed on the stone tree’s branches from the moment he stepped into the courtyard.

“It is still there,” Childermass said.

“What is?” asked Segundus. He squinted but couldn’t see anything other than the bare branches.

“Do you not see it?” Childermass didn’t take his eyes off the tree.

Segundus shook his head, but he doubted that Childermass saw, as he had taken several steps forward. He moved slowly, almost reverently, like a petitioner approaching a king.

“It belongs to  _ him, _ ” Childermass whispered. Segundus heard his voice as though it were carried on the wind: distant and yet somehow close to his ear. Childermass stepped forward in a trance and reached out his arm to the stone tree. He raised his hand into the branches and— 

—a thunderclap—

—a flash of darkness—

—a long whispering susurrus—

—a breeze smelling of heather and juniper—

Childermass’s hand came away clutching a raven’s feather. He uncurled his fingers, slowly, so Segundus could see. They stared down at it in his open palm. “I don’t understand,” Childermass said.

The scent of heather lingered.

\---

“I want to try something,” Childermass said that night, after several fruitless hours of poring over the markings on Vinculus’s skin.

Brandon looked up at him. “Alright,” he said slowly. “What sort of thing?”

Childermass didn’t answer. He moved to stand before Vinculus, who sat in a comfortable-looking armchair in front of the low fire. He put his left hand in his pocket (Segundus knew he gripped the feather that he had found that morning) and squinted at Vinculus’s bared arm.

At first, there was nothing. Childermass’s face twisted in concentration, and his hand in his pocket balled into a fist. Brandon took a breath, no doubt to make some scathing remark, but Segundus held up a hand for silence. Surprisingly, Brandon obeyed.

A slow change came over the room. Segundus thought he saw flashes of vines of ivy that crept across the walls, but when he turned to look, the leaves disappeared. It was a disconcerting effect, and Segundus began to feel quite light-headed. This went on for almost a minute, but Brandon appeared unaffected, and Childermass and Vinculus were staring at one another so intently that Segundus doubted they’d notice if the room caught on fire.

Suddenly, a bolt of light flashed between Childermass and Vinculus. It knocked both men away from each other. Vinculus’s armchair skidded several inches backward, and Childermass stumbled and caught himself on the wall. He was breathing heavily. “What the hell,” he said, “was  _ that?” _

Instead of replying, Vinculus jumped out of his armchair and danced a rather clumsy jig. “Finally,” he crowed. “My Reader knows how to read!”

Childermass looked at Segundus, an expression of puzzlement and— was that  _ fear?—  _ on his face. Segundus didn’t think he had ever seen Childermass afraid; it made him look rather vulnerable. He wanted to gather Childermass up in his arms, he wanted to shout for joy, he wanted to dance around the room with Vinculus, despite his dizziness. He did none of those things. Instead, he raised a hand to his lips and said, with no small amount of wonder, “The air tastes like thunderstorms.”

Then he fainted.


	13. All the Wrong Questions

**May 1817**

Segundus had a series of very odd dreams. He dreamed he was running through a forest, frantic and gasping, chasing after Childermass who slipped from his grasp like a shadow. No— Childermass was chasing  _ him, _ and he did not know why he was running, only that if he stopped, terrible things would happen. And then they ran side by side, not away but  _ toward _ something, something wonderful Segundus couldn’t name but knew to be his heart’s desire.

He dreamed he was at Starecross, being drawn forward through the winding halls and drawing Childermass in turn ever closer to the enchantment that suffocated the house and the lady who lay within it. He felt as though he glided over the floor without moving his feet, and his head was dizzy, and he couldn’t open his eyes, for even the dullest flickering candle-flame sent immense pain racketing through his head. This was not a dream, he realized, but a memory, beneath a gossamer layer of surreality. It was not a pleasant memory, but he had little time to dwell on it before it changed.

He dreamed of a dark man with hair like a rainstorm, standing on the swell of a hill in the middle of a moor. The man contemplated the distant grey line of the horizon. Segundus couldn’t see his face, but he knew the man to be Childermass. A wreath of raven feathers sat on his head, and he wore bracelets of ivy. He was not very far away, but when Segundus tried to climb the gentle hillside to reach him, he found that he could get no nearer. “Mr. Childermass,” he said, for he did not know who might be listening. Childermass gave no sign of hearing him. “Mr. Childermass,” he said again, louder. His voice seemed to be swallowed up by the sky. “John!”

That got through to Childermass. He turned in surprise. Light gleamed from his eyelids and his lips, from his heart and from his left hand. This hand he reached out to Segundus, who was too far away to take it but raised his own hand anyway. Somehow, their hands met, clasped together, and Segundus realized he too wore bracelets of ivy. Childermass pulled him to the crest of the hill and turned his attention back to the horizon.

“What are you doing?” Segundus asked.

“I am learning the language of the sky,” said Childermass.

“That sounds very difficult.”

“On the contrary. It is the easiest thing in the world.” A flicker of doubt passed across Childermass’s face. “What are  _ you _ doing?”

Something told Segundus that this was not merely a dream or a memory. This was something else entirely, something he had no right to be a part of. He shifted uncomfortably. “I believe I am intruding. I should go.”

Childermass turned to him. “I do not want you to go.”

“Nevertheless, I must.” Segundus took a step back, then another.

“No!” Childermass cried, anguished. He reached out his hand once more and—

\---

—and Segundus awoke, blinking his eyes blearily at the collection of faces expressing various degrees of concern assembled above him. There was Vinculus, rather too close for comfort, and Brandon beyond, looking annoyed. A maid and a concierge hovered nearby. He looked around until he found the one face he cared about. “John,” he said, though his voice came out as no more than an indistinct rasp. He came to himself a little more and immediately wished he hadn’t. He was flat on his back on a rather hard surface, though some soft material pillowed his head and neck. His hand was held very tightly in a familiar grasp.

“He is awake,” Childermass said above him. “Fetch water and cloth, and make up a tea-tray.”

Someone outside Segundus’s line of sight scurried away to do as Childermass bid. Segundus groaned and tried to sit up, only to find himself stopped by a firm hand at his shoulder.

“Do not try to move, sir,” Childermass said. “We have yet to ascertain if you were injured in your fall.”

“I am not injured,” said Segundus. His voice was a little weak. He became aware of a growing throbbing ache coming from the back of his head, and he winced. Childermass must have noticed this, for his expression grew more concerned. “How long was I out?”

“Seconds,” Childermass said.

“It felt like much longer.”

Nearby, Vinculus cleared his throat, and Childermass sprang back. A maid bustled in a split second later, bearing a ewer of water and several flannel cloths, which Childermass wasted no time in applying to Segundus’s forehead.

Segundus allowed this treatment for nearly a minute before batting Childermass’s hands away. “I am fine,” he insisted. “I just want to sit and have some tea.” This he was permitted to do under the supervision of Childermass who, after sending away the maids and concierge and several footmen who had appeared to see what all the fuss was about, half-lifted him onto the sofa and fussed about him with pillows and coverlets until he was driven nearly mad with it. It was most uncharacteristic of Childermass, and Segundus worried more for the other magician’s health than for his own, despite the pain that still radiated from the back of his skull.

Brandon, Segundus realized with no small embarrassment, watched all this from the corner of the room, his green eyes shadowed and calculating. When Childermass asked (again) if Segundus was  _ quite sure _ the tea wasn’t too hot, Brandon gave an amused little snort and said, “Coming on a little strong, aren’t we?” Childermass and Segundus both stared at him, the first in anger and the second in fear and guilt, and he smirked. “I am sorry, was it supposed to be a secret?”

“If you should want continued access to the Raven King’s book,” said Childermass, his voice a barely-controlled growl, “it will remain a secret.”

Brandon’s expression soured. “You have no right.”

Childermass only laughed at that and turned his attention once more to Segundus, who sat beside him on the sofa and sipped carefully at his tea.

“I dreamed of you,” Segundus said as he remembered. His hand trembled hard enough to threaten to spill his tea, and he set teacup and saucer down on a nearby table.

Childermass looked wary.

“Just now, when I— fainted.” Segundus gestured at the spot he had recently vacated. “You said you were learning the language of the sky.”

“That  _ was _ you,” said Childermass, his wariness giving way to awe. “I wondered— but I didn’t think— it all happened so fast.”

“What did?” Segundus asked.

Childermass reached into his pocket and brought forth the raven feather. It should have been crumpled from being carried about rather unceremoniously and crushed in Childermass’s fist, but it was as shining and pristine as if merely seconds had passed since it had fallen. “It was like remembering something I had forgotten I once knew. The sky was speaking, and I knew what it was saying. You were there.”

“How can that be?” said Segundus. He lifted his hand to brush a finger along the edge of the feather, but something stopped him. This was not for him, he knew. This was for Childermass, and Childermass alone. Being with him, on the moor beneath the speaking sky, had been imposition enough; further trespasses would not be tolerated.

“It is as though we experienced the same moment at different times,” Childermass mused. He stowed the feather.

“But how can that be?” Segundus asked again.

“I do not know.” Childermass leaned back against the sofa. “There must be some magic at work.”

Segundus tried to look exasperated, but he did not have the energy for it or for stimulating conversation, even conversation about magic. “Undoubtedly.”

Something of his exhaustion must have shown on his face, for Childermass stood. “You have had a trying day, sir. You ought to rest.”

Segundus nodded, wincing. “Yes,” he said instead. “That would be prudent.”

Walking was not too difficult. He had no weakness in his limbs, nor did he feel dizzy, but his head pounded with every step. He was sure to have an impressive bruise where he had cracked his head against the floor. His elbow ached as well; he must have hit it on something on the way down. Childermass did not follow him up immediately. He heard Brandon say something in an acidic tone, though he couldn’t quite make out the words, and Childermass’s answering rumble, no doubt a threat of some sort. Vinculus said something as well, but by then, Segundus was too far away to detect anything beyond the merest suggestion of noise.

It was too warm for a fire, so the room was lit only by the quarter-moon when Segundus opened the door. He lit two candles: one for himself, which he carried with him, and one for Childermass, which he left on the table by the door. His nightly routine didn’t take long— Segundus was not a man who was over-cautious of his appearance— so he was already in his nightshirt and climbing into bed when Childermass appeared. While Childermass undressed and prepared himself for bed with quiet efficiency, Segundus squirmed about under the covers, trying to find a comfortable position. On his own, he might sleep on his back or his left side, but the location of the bruise on his head made either position extremely uncomfortable, and his elbow pained him if he lay on his right side.

“What’s the matter wi’ you?” Childermass asked.

Segundus sat up. “I cannot seem to find a position that does not hurt,” he said, a little petulantly.

Childermass frowned and studied the bed. “I may have a solution, if you can stand to give up the bolster,” he said.

Segundus nodded. “It was too firm anyway.”

Childermass slid the bolster out from under the other pillows and arranged it partially beneath Segundus’s body, slightly elevating his left side but not so much as to hurt his elbow. “How’s that?”

“Much better,” said Segundus. He settled more deeply into the bed and closed his eyes, only to open them again in surprise as Childermass’s lips brushed his forehead.

Childermass looked almost guilty at being caught— which was absurd, Segundus thought, it was not as though Childermass could do such a thing and keep it a secret— but a darkly shining happiness quickly smoothed over the guilt as Segundus pulled him closer for more intimate kisses. He gingerly sat down on the bed and allowed Segundus to hook his uninjured arm around his neck. Their kisses deepened, slowed. Something of Segundus’s intent must have shown on his face, for Childermass asked, “are you quite sure, John?”

“I am,” Segundus whispered.

_ Tenderness _ was not something Segundus often experienced from the world at large, nor did he usually associate it with Childermass. But that was the only word he could think of to describe the manner in which Childermass brought him to a high thrum of sensation. Childermass’s hands and mouth were gentle on his body— not delicate, as though Segundus might shatter like fine china with one wrong touch, but almost  _ reverent, _ as though Childermass had been accorded a great and joyful privilege that he intended to make the most of. He did not tease, but slowly worked Segundus higher and higher toward his peak and brought him over, shuddering. Afterward, Childermass idly rolled his hips, thrusting into Segundus’s hand as they kissed, and he bit down on Segundus’s lip when he reached his crisis. Segundus drank in his quiet gasps.

They lay together, and their breathing evened and slowed. Childermass’s face looked even more weather-worn in the candlelight, the lines carved deeper, the hollows more darkly shadowed. Segundus reached up to rest his fingers along Childermass’s jaw. “You are beautiful,” he whispered.

Childermass huffed with laughter. “You ought to get your head checked. I think your fainting spell has left you delirious.”

“It has not,” insisted Segundus.

Childermass brushed Segundus’s bottom lip with one finger. “I have hurt you.”

“Not so very much,” Segundus said. He did not like the guilty, somewhat pained look on Childermass’s face, so he tried to distract him.

Childermass refused to be put off, however. “I do not—” he said in between kisses, his voice slightly muffled. “I do not enjoy hurting you.”

Segundus pulled back a bit. “I have never thought you did,” he said carefully.

“I’m afraid I will again.”

“I do not believe you will.”

“Yes, but—” Childermass let out a sigh of frustration. “I am not good at explaining myself.”

“I know that much,” said Segundus lightly. “John, there is nothing to explain. You have done me no harm. It will be better by morning.”

“That is a contradiction,” Childermass said. The look of guilt did not go away. “You cannot know if I will hurt you in the future.”

Segundus sighed. “We should sleep.”

“Let me clean us up first. You will thank me for it in the morning.”

“Yes, alright.”

That done, Segundus adjusted the bolster and the pillows once more to his liking and burrowed beneath the blankets. He was quite comfortable in this position, he thought, half-propped and with Childermass’s arm about his waist. Childermass really was a clever fellow to think of it. He was of a mind to tell him such, but before he could form the words, he was asleep.

\---

A new development occurred over breakfast in the form of a letter addressed to Mr. John Childermass at the Bridge Inn from one James Goddard.

“He will meet with us,” said Childermass as he scanned the letter, eggs and toast forgotten. “But only with Ainsworth and Hastings present.” He passed the letter to Segundus. “I suppose they think Goddard is too easily persuaded, so they want the true believers there to prevent us from swaying him.”

“Or so they may make another attempt to sway us.” Segundus glanced down at the letter. “He has suggested a time and a place: noon, at Yew Tree Farm. Shall I write back with our acceptance?”

“Aye,” Childermass said. “If you are quick about it, you might be in time for second post.”

Segundus was quick about it.  _ We are honored to accept your invitation, _ he scrawled on a page torn out of Childermass’s memorandum book.  _ We will gladly meet with you at the appointed time. _ He signed his name, and Childermass signed his, and he was just in time for second post. “Now the question is what to do until noon,” he said after posting the letter and returning to the table.

“You may do what you want,” said Childermass. “I will be reading the King’s Letters.”

The rough dismissal stung for a moment before Segundus caught the crinkling at the corners of Childermass’s eyes. “A tempting prospect,” Segundus said, smiling. “Perhaps I shall join you.”

“Nothing would make me happier,” said Childermass.

“Nothing?” Segundus felt his ears heat at his own boldness. It was one thing to make such jokes in the privacy of their room, but it was quite another to say them out loud in a public space.

“Few things,” Childermass amended. His crooked smile wound its way up the side of his face.

They finished their meal not long after and ensconced themselves once more within the private parlor that had served as their and Brandon’s study for the past days. Vinculus was habitually a late riser, but Brandon was already in the parlor when Segundus and Childermass walked in. He wore the same clothes he had worn yesterday, but he had stripped himself down to his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. He paced the room, muttering to himself. His eyes were smudged with darkness, and his red hair was in disarray as though he had run his hands through it over and over until it stood on end. The beginnings of a beard showed on his face in red and blonde.

“Have you been awake all night, sir?” Segundus asked with some alarm.

“I watched the stars as they sailed across the night-sky sea,” said Brandon, his tone short and clipped. “I listened, but they did not speak to me. Where is the Book?”

“The Book is asleep,” Childermass said.

“A tragedy that such power is given to a man so ill-suited for it.” Brandon flapped a hand at them as though shaking water droplets off his fingers. “Fetch him.”

Childermass leaned against the doorway with his customary insolence. “He will awaken before too long. You may resume your study of him then. Though I am not certain you have been going about it in the correct way.”

Brandon ceased his pacing and glared at Childermass. Segundus had to restrain himself from stepping back at the force behind Brandon’s gaze. “I have been going about it in the best way I know how. If you know of another way, then by all means, share it.”

“The Raven King has shown me a new way to read the Book,” Childermass said. “He has taught me—”

“He has given you a dictionary of some sort?” Brandon interrupted.

“Not a dictionary, no.” Childermass frowned. “He is teaching me the languages the land uses to speak to itself.”

“What good is that with no dictionary?” Brandon resumed his pacing without waiting for an answer.

Childermass glanced at Segundus and rolled his eyes.

For lack of anything better to do, Childermass and Segundus sorted through the various notes they had taken and tried to form them into a cohesive whole. This was especially difficult with Brandon’s notes, as he was prone to meandering tangents and occasionally wrote in a mirror-script much like da Vinci. These pages were especially hard to decipher. For a time, Segundus was worried that Brandon might jealously snatch his notes away, but he took no notice of his and Childermass’s activities.

Childermass and Segundus had little time to study Vinculus; he didn’t rouse himself until nearly half past eleven, and he refused to allow himself to be read until he had eaten a hearty breakfast. The hour appointed for the meeting with the Johannites approached, so the two magicians took their leave and made their way through the streets damp with late spring rain to Yew Tree Farm.

There was no one in the yard as they approached, so, as before, Childermass rapped sharply upon the door. The same frazzled-looking woman in the same apron answered. “You’re expected,” she said. Her face was carefully blank, but her tone was cold. She led the magicians through the farmhouse to a cozy-looking dining room with walls of grey and brown brick.

Three people were seated at the large, age-worn table: Hastings, in a coat of dark blue; Ainsworth, who twisted a grey cap in his broad hands, and a man light of hair and eye with a wide mouth that was pressed into an uncertain frown. Segundus surmised he was James Goddard, and was proven correct as introductions were made.

“Please, sit,” said Ainsworth. “Sarah, that’ll be all.”

“But, Peter—” the woman said.

“Go on, Sarah.” Ainsworth tipped his head toward the large window that overlooked the yard. “See to the chickens. This business’ll be done before long.”

Sarah bustled out without another word. Segundus heard the sound of the front door opening and shutting with slightly more force than he thought necessary.

“Maggie says you’re trying to persuade us to give up the rebellion,” said Goddard in the silence that followed Sarah’s exit.

Childermass nodded. “You all are following a foolish and dangerous path that will certainly end in you shot or hanged, and may cause violent civil unrest across England.”

“The Raven King will not let that happen to us,” said Ainsworth with a small frown, but Childermass held up a hand for silence without taking his eyes off Goddard.

“What is your role in this?” he asked.

Goddard glanced at Ainsworth before replying. “I was a weaver. I worked in the same mill as Ainsworth and was sacked at the same time.”

“Was that when you became a Johannite?” said Childermass.

Goddard nodded. “Ainsworth and me… we talked about how unjust it all is, that the bosses can do whatever they want with us and we have no say in it. They can cut our pay, or fire us, and there’s nothing we can do.”

Childermass sighed. “I cannot say I do not sympathize with your cause. We must hang on the whims of our  _ betters—” _ he pronounced the word with such bitterness that Segundus flinched “—and hope for fair treatment.”

Ainsworth nodded enthusiastically. “Quite right, sir. So you see why we’re willing to risk everything, even our lives, for a better England.”

“I always did,” Childermass said. “As I have said before, my primary disagreement is not with your beliefs, but with your plan.”

“What did Maggie tell you?” asked Hastings.

Childermass eyed him for a moment as though taking his measure for a second time. “Nothing of consequence. I figured it out myself. You could not have chosen a more obvious target, gentlemen.”

Segundus barely controlled his look of surprise. If Childermass was lying about the information Maggie had given them, he had a good reason, and Segundus should not give it away.

Goddard shrugged one shoulder. “We want to make a statement.”

“You certainly shall,” Childermass muttered. “Only I do not believe you will appreciate the response. I must ask you to desist, sirs. Do not go through with your plan, and find some other way to air your grievances. Join a union if you must— at least then you will have enough of a movement behind you to have a chance to change things. This isn’t London, but certainly there must be some other way.”

“We’ve already had words about this,” said Ainsworth. His hand clenched into a fist around his cap. “You  _ magicians _ think you may come here and order us around, and we shall have to obey because of our low stations. But justice, true justice, is on our side, sirs, and we will prevail— if not this time, then the next, or the next.”

“And in the meantime, you shall split England asunder in a civil war,” Childermass said, frustrated.

Ainsworth folded his arms and looked resolutely out the window. “If that’s what it takes.”

“So bloody  _ stubborn,” _ Childermass muttered. He took a deep breath as though he wanted to continue his tirade, but Segundus aimed a kick at his ankle. Childermass turned to him, and he looked from Ainsworth to Goddard and raised his eyebrows. He wasn’t sure if Childermass got his message, but he gestured for Segundus to speak anyway.

“During our previous meeting, you said that your rebellion was driven by love and loyalty,” Segundus said to Ainsworth, carefully picking over every word. “Do you have none for the citizens of the Raven King?”

Ainsworth looked taken aback. “Of course I do,” he said. “That is why I must continue.”

“But why are you so eager to offer up your countrymen and their families to violence and conquest?” Segundus pressed.

Ainsworth narrowed his eyes. “I don’t wish for it, of course,” he said. “But it’s a possibility we must be prepared for. It is the risk all rebels take when fighting for their chosen cause.”

“The French and the Americans have fought wars for their revolutions,” Goddard said quietly. He nodded to Ainsworth. “Peter has the right of it. We must be prepared to do the same.”

“Not if you stop,” said Segundus. “Put the rebellion behind you. Do not risk Englishmen spilling English blood.”

“If you won’t listen to sense,” said Childermass, “listen to  _ reason. _ This is not the way to get what you want. Your rebellion will accomplish nothing but violence and bloodshed. Do you think anyone will have sympathy for the Johannites who started a civil war? Do you  _ really _ think you will get what you want, if England takes that path?”

Hastings and Ainsworth looked resolute, but Goddard appeared to waver. He glanced between Ainsworth and Childermass, uncertain, and took a breath.

Hastings spoke before Goddard had the chance. “Mr. Childermass, Mr. Segundus, I believe you have said what you came here to say.”

“Not quite,” Childermass said. “I have one last thing.”

Ainsworth frowned but gestured for him to continue.

“I fully intend to stop you. I will not allow the mill to burn, if it is within my power to prevent it.” Childermass held the gaze of each of the Johannites in turn. “But I will not turn you in, either to the law or to the militia, and not only because I do not wish to see you made into martyrs. I will not subject you to an unjust trial in a corrupt system. You have my word on that, and when I give my word, it is final.”

Ainsworth frowned as though he did not know quite what to make of Childermass’s words. 

“This meeting is over,” said Hastings. “I ask you to leave.”

“This is not your house,” said Childermass.

“It’s mine,” Ainsworth said quellingly. “And  _ I _ ask you to leave. Farewell, sirs. I don’t believe we will have occasion to meet again.”

There was nothing to be said in the face of such a dismissal, so Segundus and Childermass collected their hats and shuffled out the front door.

“Our business is done,” Childermass called out to Sarah as they passed the chicken coop. “We shall not trouble you or your family again. Good day, madam.”

Their boots squelched in the mud as they crossed the yard, and Segundus tried to stamp the worst of it off when they reached firmer ground.

Childermass watched his efforts with some amusement as he lit his pipe. Once again, he steered their steps in a manner Segundus couldn’t predict. He did not seem to have a particular destination in mind, but led them in a meandering stroll through the cobbled streets of Duffield. Though the sky was mostly clear, a bank of clouds on the horizon threatened rain. “An illuminating conversation, John, wouldn’t you agree?” he said as they walked.

Segundus nodded doubtfully. “I suppose,” he said. “We did not learn anything more about their plan.”

“No,” said Childermass around the stem of his pipe. “Nor were we likely to. But we did learn that they are a united front. Direct pressure won’t turn them aside from their plan, which means that we must rely on my sister’s intelligence and find a way to stymie them ourselves.”

“You lied to them about Maggie.”

Childermass let out a smoky exhale. “Mr. Hastings seems a decent fellow. I did not want to ruin my sister’s happiness. God knows she’s had little enough of it in her time.”

Segundus looked at him incredulously. “He’s a Johannite!”

“So is she,” said Childermass with a shrug. “They are well suited for each other, aren’t they?”

Segundus laughed in disbelief.

“I believe I am beginning to put together the pieces of the puzzle,” Childermass said. “There are still some missing, though.”

“Such as, who is the captain’s informant?”

“Aye. That is the key piece, I believe.”

Segundus thought for a moment. “It is most likely someone we have not met.”

“Believe it or not, I had considered that possibility.” Childermass smiled, taking the sting out of his words. “Perhaps, but I disagree with your assessment. The informant must have given some reason for Captain Oakes to trust her information, and she must be familiar enough to the Johannites that they would not fear speaking of their plans where she might eavesdrop. And finally, she must have a motivation to inform. I can only think of one person who fits all three categories. I believe my suspect is obvious.”

Segundus shook his head.

Childermass glanced back in the direction of Yew Tree Farm. “I am particularly interested in Sarah Ainsworth.”

“Sarah Ainsworth!” Segundus repeated, surprised. “Why on Earth do you suspect her?”

“She is clearly unhappy with her husband’s activities. Perhaps she has made some sort of deal with the captain. She feeds him information, and Ainsworth is treated with leniency when arrests are made.”

Segundus considered it. “It makes sense,” he said. “Though I do not want to believe a person could betray someone she deeply loves.”

“If Mrs. Ainsworth is indeed the informant,” said Childermass, “it may be that she does not see it as a betrayal at all. In her mind, she may be protecting her husband from retribution for his actions.”

Segundus’s stomach growled then. “While we put the pieces together, might we have our luncheon?” he asked.

“Certainly, John,” Childermass said. “At once.”

They found their way back to the Bridge Inn, where luncheon was fortunately still being served despite the relative lateness of the hour. Childermass was quiet throughout the meal; Segundus assumed his mind was occupied with the mystery before them.

Segundus was grateful for the interlude. He no longer felt as though he swam out of his depth, as he had when they first arrived in Duffield (had it only been a few days ago? It felt like much longer) but the strain of investigation was beginning to weary him. He longed to be at Starecross, or even in his own small room in Mrs. Sparrow’s house, surrounded by familiar sights and comforted by familiar books. He realized with a start that he was homesick. He had not felt homesick in many years; he had not thought he ever would again. He contemplated sharing this with Childermass but didn’t want to risk being mocked. “What shall we do for the rest of the afternoon?” he asked instead as a surly waiter cleared their plates away.

Childermass leaned back in his chair, his hands folded on the table. “I do not know,” he said carefully. “Our efforts have been stymied, for the time. It might be best to make another attempt at reading the King’s Letters and wait for further developments. Certainly we should speak with Maggie again, but I doubt she will have new intelligence for us just yet.”

Segundus nodded, and they rose from their table and strode to the private parlor. He pushed the door open to reveal a strange tableau: Vinculus lounging in an armchair near the window, a tankard of ale clutched in one hand and humming happily to himself, while Brandon sat at a desk on the opposite end of the room with his head cradled in his hands, the very picture of defeat.

“Mr. Brandon,” Segundus said in surprise. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Another scrap of shining knowledge has made itself known to me,” said Brandon glumly. He did not look up.

“You translated another word?” Segundus took a cautious step into the room. “That is good, is it not?”

“Yes, but it has shown me how far we still have to go!” In a flurry of motion, Brandon arose from his chair and swept all the papers from the desk. They fluttered around his feet like fallen leaves in an autumn breeze. His chest heaved. “Mysteries and enigmas. A dark labyrinth. A bright pattern. We stand at the mouth and peer in, but we don’t know what we seek.”

“I have had quite enough of mad magicians,” Childermass said from the doorway. “Pull yourself together, man, or go back to Derby and rave there.”

Brandon shook his head wildly. “Not when there is so much to learn. Mysteries and enigmas, labyrinths and patterns.”

“What does that mean?” asked Segundus.

Brandon shook his head again before slumping once more into his chair.

Segundus and Childermass shared a glance. “We are going to make our own attempts to read the Letters,” said Childermass cautiously. Brandon did not respond, so he crossed the room to Vinculus. “Are you well?” he asked under his breath.

Vinculus nodded. “Aye,” he said. “Mad the strange magician may be, but he is generous as well.” He lifted his tankard as if in a toast. “He does not know how to read, though. You do.” He fixed his watery eyes on Childermass.

Childermass reached into his coat pocket and drew forth the glossy raven feather. “If you would be so kind as to roll up your sleeve,” he said.

Vinculus did so, and Childermass began to read.


End file.
